Tug of War
by OughtaKnowBetter
Summary: Several million people in LA, a hundred different criminal elements, two FBI agents battling over one mathematician. Complete story.
1. Chapter 1

It didn't take any effort at all to make his feelings known as to the current state of affairs.

"You blew three months of hard work," Don Eppes snarled. "What the hell did you think you were doing?" At the moment, he could afford to yell at the crime scene. His fellow FBI agents were milling around, cuffing those in a condition to be cuffed and sniffing around trying to find out where the others had run to. Still others were tacking up yellow crime scene tape to cordon off the area until all the records had been retrieved. Someone sensible with the forethought to bring along spotlights was stringing those lights up so that everyone could see what they were doing in the darkness.

"What the hell did I think I was doing? I'll tell you what I was doing: taking down a ring of child pornographers, _that's_ what I was doing, Eppes. And what I'm doing now is getting your face the hell out of mine! You got a problem with that? Take it up with the Area Director!" She stalked away, shouting at one of her team to be ever-so-careful with the head slime ball with the expensive attorney who wouldn't be able to weasel his client out of this one.

Normally Don Eppes enjoyed looking at women with long legs, long blonde hair whether or not it was pinned up under a cap labeled 'FBI', and with more than a modicum of intelligence that would refute the title of 'dumb blonde'. It was one of the perks of his job that he got to watch several such blondes with figures like his math genius brother would never be able to add up. He'd met many drop-dead gorgeous women, on both sides of the law. He'd even dated a few. Granted, the liaisons were generally brief, but that was because of his job and how it got in the way of life. Watching those backsides run, stride, or saunter away was something that couldn't be paid for. He was a healthy male, and he _liked_ looking at attractive women.

But in the case of Jessica 'Jelly' Morton, Don Eppes would make an exception.

_Dammit, it was not jealousy!_ It was not the fact that Don himself was used to possessing the title of 'golden child' and getting all the accolades for the toughest cases cracked in the least amount of time. Jelly Morton had transferred in from Seattle, wanting a change of scenery and the chance to see how blondes looked with a natural tan instead of one from a salon, and the rest had been history. She'd re-opened one of Don's few unsolved cases and cracked it within forty-eight hours: she'd spotted something in one of the suspect's statements that led to a major fissure in the testimony which led to a major crime figure going down. Then she followed that triumph up by tying together a software piracy group in Seattle with a distribution ring in L.A., and now everyone in the L.A. office was clamoring to be on Morton's team. _Everyone wants to team up with a winner_. _Well, not everyone, Eppes. You've still got Sinclair, Reeves, and Granger._

This was the last straw. Sinclair had been undercover for the last month, bringing Don in as his syndicate 'boss' for a 'deal'. Not this conversation, but the next one was the one that would be taped for later playback in front of a judge. This early in the game, the opposition was still eager to frisk both David and Don for any wires. Black Bart Blackburn was well known as a dealer of drugs and prostitution and a few other things unpleasant to think about, and the street would be much cleaner with him behind bars. Unfortunately, all they had was a name, and one that didn't pop up in any database in the country; clearly an alias that protected its owner. Black Bart had put a firewall or two between himself and the justice system. No one had ever seen Black Bart; even the crime boss's own people didn't know what the man looked like or where he lived. Don's entire team was working this one carefully, slowly, refusing to let themselves be rushed in their eagerness. They'd been working this one since before anyone had an inkling that there was any such Special Agent Jessica 'Jelly' Morton out of Seattle.

And now she'd blown it. Her team had swooped down while Don and David were conducting 'business' and snatched all the records and all the key players with the exception of Blackburn himself. A total success, that was what her people were calling it. A total fiasco, was Don's take. And the worst part of it was, no one would see it his way. All they would see was that Jelly Morton had pulled off another one, had taken one of the top crime figures in L.A. down a peg. They wouldn't see that there was a whole organization out there that she missed, that she'd only cut off a tentacle. That the rest would thrive, that another sub-leader would step into the void to keep the distribution channels going. That child porn wasn't the only line that Blackburn had been into, and he had plenty of potential lackies eager to move up in the ranks.

Sullenly, he turned back to his own team. David Sinclair was being seen by the medics, getting his face patched up where he'd caught a fist. David too was smoldering; "that was Joe DiCerno, Don, with that right hook! Didn't he recognize me?"

"What can I say? You do damn good undercover work. Even our own don't recognize you." But Don's heart wasn't in it. He was thinking of what he could say, what he could do to somehow get this investigation back on track. The thoughts weren't coming easily. "You okay?"

"Yeah—ouch! Watch it there, guy."

"Sorry." The medic wasn't sorry. He dabbed at the cut again, pulling it closed with some butterfly sutures. "Don't get that wet or infected."

"Yeah. Thanks." David wasn't concentrating on his face. He, like Don, was concentrating on how to cope with this disaster.

"I should send you home," Don told him. "He clocked you good. You sure you don't have concussion?"

"Let's just say that DiCerno is going to owe me a big one when we get back to the office," David grumbled. "No, I'm fine, Don. Let's just go home and figure out what went wrong."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"All right, so how come we didn't know what Jelly Morton was working on?" Megan Reeves leaned back in her chair, chewing the eraser end of her pencil. "Didn't she follow procedure? Hasn't she been posting her briefs?" Megan set her feet back down to tap onto the computer in front of her. "Here they are. All she's talking about is the child porn ring that she'd been assigned, no links to any of our leads. Nothing about Blackburn. Nothing about a raid." She grimaced. "Classic case of the right hand not knowing what the left was doing. She probably didn't even know that her investigation was running over ours."

Colby Granger peered over her shoulder. "Yeah, but how did she get from the Van Buren tentacle over on the west side of L.A. to Blackburn's main porn studio? You think she got a tip from somebody that she didn't have time to post? Gotta be honest, Don; that could happen. You get a hot tip and you gotta act on it. How many times have we done the same thing?"

It hurt, but Don was too honest to refuse to admit the truth of Colby's statement. This was a classic foul-up, just as Megan had said. Usually it was Don and his team that benefited from the screw-up, and now the odds were evening out. His brother would tell him that Don was way overdue for some bad luck, statistically speaking. Most of the time the hot leads for Don had panned out. This one didn't. Jelly Morton was a damn good FBI agent who happened to luck onto a piece of information that sent her crashing into his investigation. She wasn't a hot shot, she was just a good agent following up on solid detecting. Don should consider himself lucky that she was working in the same office. Now that they both were here, the closure rates would skyrocket and the L.A. office would look even better than they usually did when it came to comparing numbers back in Washington.

So why did it still hurt so much?

Don put it aside. "Okay, how much damage was done to our own case? You think your cover was blown, David?"

"Oh, yeah." David's face fell. "I think it kind of shattered into little pieces when DiCerno said, 'jeez, Sinclair, I'm sorry. I didn't recognize you.' Right in front of Tiny Doolittle, he said it."

"Damn." That hurt even more. "It took three months to get you in there. You'll never get back inside."

"Want me to try, Don?" Colby offered.

Don shook his head. "Not right now. Blackburn and his bunch will be more nervous than a crackhead without a fix. They'll be triple-checking everyone and then some. No, we need another route. Ideas, anyone?"

Megan shrugged. "I'll listen in on Jelly Morton's interrogations. Maybe somebody'll say something that we can use."

"Do that." Don himself didn't feel like doing it. Too much chance of running into Special Agent Morton and saying something not particularly useful for his long term career goals. "Keep me posted. David?"

David jerked his thumb at Colby. "I'll take along back up and squeeze some of the friends I've made over the last three months. Now that I'm out of the closet, I can lean on them, see if I can get them to talk about anything more enlightening than the weather."

"Good idea. Do it before they have time to relocate," Don approved. He sighed. "Me, I've got some reports to write. Something about not closing a case." He sighed again. "And I'll read through Morton's stuff as well." A third sigh. Not something he was looking forward to. "Maybe _she'll_ have an idea that I can latch onto."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Want a hand with your last interview?" Megan stretched her long legs to catch up with Special Agent Morton.

Jelly Morton threw a glance over her shoulder. "No. Why should I? I've been doing interrogations for several years now. Thanks for the offer." The thanks weren't sincere.

Megan shrugged, trying to keep it easy. "She's twelve years old. She's not a suspect, she's a victim here. I just saw Charlene from Child Welfare come in, so they'll probably be ready in a few minutes."

Morton gave her a strange look. "The kid was plenty old enough to know what she was doing, Agent Reeves. She was making out okay. I expect to be able to trace some of the money that she was paid to make my case airtight."

Megan furrowed her brows. "She's twelve years old," she protested. "She may think that she knew what she was getting herself into, but kids that age usually don't realize the whole picture. They don't have the mental maturity. That's why they call them children."

"_Usually_," Morton pounced on the word. "Usually, Agent Reeves. But not in this case." She paused for effect. "You're one of Eppes' people, right?"

"Yes—"

"Tell Eppes that I don't need his help. He can read my reports, just like everyone else. Got it?"

"I'm not—"

Morton cut her off. "You're right; you're not. You're not going to interfere with my investigation, you're not going to screw it up, and you're not going to interrogate _my_ suspect. I've closed a lot of cases, Agent Reeves, and done just fine. It's too bad that your boss doesn't like the competition, but he'd better get used to it, and so had you! Back off." She stalked off down the hallway, her heels spitting fire off of the linoleum.

Megan held up her hands in surrender, and slowly lowered them. "Sorry for trying to be a team player," she murmured.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Don't run, don't run, don't run!" David snarled under his breath. He pulled out his link to Colby, yelling, "he's heading for the back."

"I got 'im."

"And I've still got a head ache," David grumbled to himself, forcing tired legs to run faster than they wanted to. He pointed at the café manager. "You stay right there. I'm not finished with you."

"Right." The café manager was still clearly weighing his options. David gave himself a fifty-fifty chance that the man would still be around when they hauled Viktor's ass into headquarters for questioning. David would have been satisfied just to talk to the dude but noooo! Viktor had to rabbit. Which meant that David had to chase him, and the damn aspirin wasn't working and they had to make a federal case out of what ought to have been just a little question and answer session. He'd been right to bring Colby along. No matter what the man said to his teammates, Colby liked it when the suspects ran, liked the adrenalin rush he got from bringing someone to ground. _Better him than me today. Me, I can't wait to hang it up for the day and head for some serious down time_.

David bolted out through the back door after Viktor, watching the suspect race down the road—and into Colby's arms.

"Goin' somewhere?" Colby casually slammed Viktor against the brick wall, twisting an arm behind the man's back to immobilize him there.

"I didn't do nothin'!" Viktor insisted. "Lemme go, man!"

"If you didn't do nothin', why'd you run?" The amicable tone was still in Colby's voice, along with a healthy helping of steel. "Innocent people don't run, Viktor. They stick around and answer questions. They're nice and cooperative."

David huffed up beside them. "Hey, Viktor. Long time, no see," he said, reminding the man that they'd spoken just yesterday. Yesterday, when Viktor thought that David was an ex-con angling for a deal with Blackburn. Viktor had set up the meet, had been expecting a healthy slice for his efforts. "Got any more tips for me?"

"Filthy pig!" The man spat.

Colby shoved on the arm. "That spit comes any closer to my shoes, this hand will come close to your shoulder blade. Might break the arm. Things happen when you resist arrest, dude. Everyone saw you run out of there."

Viktor caved fast. He knew the routine, just had to make it look good for the faces hidden behind curtains in the windows facing the alleyway. "What do you want? I don't know anything."

David wasn't surprised. The man was low level, and caving was what he did. Nobody, and that included Blackburn, confided anything important to Viktor. They just used him as occasional cannon fodder. "Next run?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, man—"

"It's tomorrow, man. What I need to know is where you were told to be."

"Not gonna help you."

"You let me be the judge of that," David told him. "Where?"

Silence.

Colby pulled up on the arm.

"Stop it, man! You're hurting me!"

"Answer the question," Colby told him, "or the next stop will be downtown."

"Fourth and Walnut! Fourth and Walnut!"

"The warehouse?" David knew the place.

"That's it! The warehouse on Fourth and Walnut. We were supposed to meet."

David nodded. It made sense. It went along with the other things that David had learned while being undercover. "Let him go, Colby. And you, Viktor, I'd make myself scarce if I were you. It's not going to be too healthy to have anything to do with Blackburn. Get what I mean?"

"I get it." The words floated back to the agents in Viktor's dust as he scurried away.

Colby watched the man flee. "Think we can trust him?"

"Viktor? Not on your life. But he was more afraid of you at the moment than he was of Blackburn." David snorted. "C'mon. Let's tell Don the good news, and head home. I'm beat."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

There. That was it. Sitting there in black and white, on Morton's preliminary report.

Morton was good, he had to give her that. She'd done her homework, done the investigative work, pounded the pavement with her team, questioned suspects and witnesses and put the whole thing together with as much flair as Don himself. And she'd used Don's own methods: when you're at loose ends, talk to a consultant.

Don looked closer. Morton hadn't named the consultant but it was clearly a mathematician. Okay, Don could live with that. There were plenty of times that he'd called his own brother Charlie in for just that reason. Math was able to predict a lot of stuff, and Charlie had more than proven his worth when it came to cracking tough cases. Yup, there it was: some sort of predictive analysis that told her where the child porn tentacle of Blackburn's operation would be with 94 percent certainty. That's how Morton's team was able to pinpoint the location. It didn't take much to remember in his mind's eye the movie equipment used to film the filth. He and David had walked through it on their way to the meet with Blackburn's representative, pretending to admire the diversity of the operation, ignoring the cries of the kids 'starring' in those films. It had taken all of Don's willpower not to call for a raid right there on the spot—not knowing, of course, that a raid was already in progress; from his own side, no less. He sighed.

He wondered who the mathematician was. Ever since he'd started using Charlie, every FBI agent on the West Coast wanted a pet mathematician of their own. They saw how useful math could be. He grinned. Yeah, but Don had the inside track to Charlie. Not everybody had a potential Nobel prize winner's cell phone number programmed into their speed dial. The other FBI agents had to make do with garden variety geniuses. Good, sure, but not Charlie.

Hah.

All right, time to put some of his own advice into action. Don gathered up the report as well as some of the other data that he and his team had amassed to take to his own pet mathematician. Charlie was always telling him about flow patterns and distribution channels and stuff. Time to put his brother to work. Don was willing to bet his brother could out-math any other guy on the planet and right now Don needed some of that expertise. He needed a lead, dammit!


	2. Tug of War 2

Charlie glanced at the reams of paper in Don's arms, a harried expression on his face. "Don, I'm kind of busy right now. Dalton's got this grad student who's close to defending his dissertation—"

"Charlie, I'm dying here. I really need your help, buddy." Don looked for a place to set the paperwork down, someplace that wasn't already covered with papers with notations in several different sets of handwriting. Was that one paper really written in blue crayon? Don shuddered. _And I thought that I had a tough job._ "I'm after this guy who specializes in distribution, so I thought that it would be right up your alley. This guy is really diversified, has his hands dirty with drug dealing, with extortion, with child porn…" Don let his voice trail off, knowing that it would get to his brother.

It did. Charlie winced. "Child porn? Little girls?"

Don nodded. "Twelve years old. I saw one of 'em earlier today. Pulled her out of a bad spot," he said. Well, actually, _Megan_ had seen the kid. Don had only heard her report of what she'd learned, but that was close enough. "But that was only one operation that got shut down, Charlie. This guy has his fingers in a bunch of different pies, all using distribution channels. I thought that you could work up some sort of scheme, something where we could catch this guy with his pants down. Really nail him."

"Distribution channels? Patterns." Charlie's attention had been caught, as Don knew that it would. "I suppose I could take a little bit of time. Not much; the thesis defense is day after tomorrow and I need to develop the proof that will send Dalton's student back to the drawing board before then. I really don't want to shoot him down in front of his panel. _And_ I've got tests to grade."

"This shouldn't take much time," Don cajoled. He hadn't a clue as to how much time it would take. "Look, I've got the data right here for you to look at. You gotta help me out here, Charlie."

Charlie sighed, but it was more for show. Don could tell, knew exactly how to push his brother's buttons. Some theorem or other was undoubtedly flitting through the computer that passed for his brother's mind, something that would render another lead for Don to run down, something hopefully with the same 94 percent probability that Morton had used when she destroyed Don's own investigation. _Dammit,_ he wanted to crack this case, and he wanted to crack it before Morton put a wedge in any further!

Another sigh from his brother-the-geek, emphasizing that he was over-worked. _Think you're pushing my buttons, buddy, as hard as I'm pushing yours? Think again._ Don pasted a puppy-dog hopeful look on his face. "Where do you want this stuff, Charlie? I don't want to mess up your organization on your desk." _What organization? All I see is enough chaos to make a lithium addict seem sane._

"Put it…" Charlie paused. There really wasn't any space on his desk. "Put it…" No, the chair also held two haphazard stacks. "Put it on the floor. There, not there. That's right." One last sigh. "I'll get to it later today. But you owe me, Don. Big time."

"I owe you," Don agreed instantly. "I'll spring for pizza. I'll bring it by, later; say nine? What do you want on it?"

An evil grin crossed Charlie's face. "An IOU to clean out the back shed that Dad's been nagging me about."

Don froze. "What?"

"You heard me. If I'm going to pull an all-nighter on this case of yours, I won't have time to do chores around the house."

"But you're getting paid as a consultant," Don protested. "Doesn't that count?"

"With what the FBI pays me? Not a chance, Don. You'd have to pay me a couple more zeros—_ahead_ of the decimal place—to match what industry is offering." Charlie crossed his arms. "Back shed, Don. That's my price."

"All right," Don grumbled. _Maybe I can get the others to pitch in. They're gonna benefit by cracking this case, too._

"And pepperoni will do just fine on the pizza," Charlie called after him.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Charlie glanced up at the clock: two AM. No sighs, this time. This was the best time to work. Nobody else around to distract him, no one walking into his office to ask questions, no noise from the street. _Excellent_.

It was the time when his tasks tended to get accomplished. The tests had been graded, even that one that the Raymonds kid had turned in, who liked to argue every point. Charlie really didn't know why Raymonds was here at CalSci. He belonged at a school where debating social issues was considered a mandatory part of the college experience and where eighty-six point four percent of the undergraduate student body had law school aspirations. Charlie shook his head. Probably was here because he was ultra-bright and his parents had decided that being a medical doctor was better than following a dream. _Every day, Mom and Dad, I learn to appreciate what you did for me more and more. Sure, my dream was math, but you not only let me pursue it but you supported that dream._

And the proof disproving Dalton's grad student's thesis had been put into a comprehensible form and was flying its way to Professor Dalton on the wings of electrons over the internet. It would get to them both in time to postpone the thesis defense until the Ph.D. candidate had solved that piece of his puzzle. The basic premise looked good, Charlie thought, just needed some more work before being offered for public scrutiny. Better to have Charlie look at things quietly behind the scenes than to embarrass the kid in public in front of some of the top minds in academia. _Never mind that the 'kid' is only a couple of years younger than me._

And now on to Don's stuff. Charlie had pretended that he was working on it when Don dropped by with the pizzas, the agent even bringing a white pizza along in case a certain physicist was hanging out nearby. And he had to give Don credit: his brother had also handed him, with a flourish, a signed and sealed IOU that he would clean out the back shed the first free weekend he had.

Charlie pulled the top sheet of paper in front of himself, scanning the data there, trying to decide how best to categorize it. It looked vaguely familiar, as though he'd seen it sometime in the not so distant past. He scrunched up his face, thinking.

It wouldn't come.

He picked up another page. Yeah, there were patterns here. Patterns for the money flow, patterns for the drug distribution, even patterns as to where the child porn racket was going—

Charlie froze. The data clicked. He knew why the data looked familiar. It was because it _was_ familiar. He _had_ seen it before.

Not all of it. Just this section of it, the stuff detailing the child porn racket. That colleague of Don's had come in, asking for help, telling him that it was another FBI case of Don's that Don didn't have time to bring over to him…

No, that wasn't what that agent had said. It was what Charlie had assumed. Any FBI case would always come from Don, that's what Charlie had thought. Don worked with a lot of different agents, not just David and Megan and Colby. And Charlie had done what had been asked of him, had pinpointed the most likely location for the next 'film' shoot. Nobody had followed up with him, let him know whether or not the location was right, but Charlie had glossed over that piece by being busy with his CalSci work. He had just assumed that Don would tell him about it when he got the chance. And it wasn't as though Charlie himself had trotted over to FBI headquarters to check his work. He'd been swamped by CalSci stuff.

But Don hadn't said anything when he dropped off the reams of data, or even when he'd showed up with the pizzas and the IOU. That was puzzling. That was _really_ puzzling. Charlie frowned, and this time when he looked at his watch he did sigh. Two AM; he wasn't about to call his brother at this time of night. Don would answer, of that Charlie was certain, but c'mon! How urgent was it to ask why Don had given him duplicate data? He could ask him that in the morning. Let the man sleep.

And it would work in Charlie's favor. If the right FBI hand didn't know what the left FBI hand was doing, Charlie could use that to his personal advantage. He could distill the rest of the data more quickly, plugging it into the same formulas that he'd derived for the child porn stuff, and churn out the answer in a couple of hours. If he was lucky, he might even get a couple hours of sleep tonight. Wouldn't that surprise Don when Charlie walked into his office, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, first thing in the morning with the answer? Yet another feather in the cap of Dr. Charles Eppes, genius.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

David sipped at his early morning coffee, trying to make his desperate need for caffeine a little less obvious. A previous overdose of ibuprofen had done nothing for the killer headache that a good night's rest—_can we call it a mild coma?_—had barely made a dent in. He'd opted for the casual look this morning, a pair of khakis with a shirt pulled over his head. No buttons to fumble over, no collar to choke him. He hoped that his eyes didn't look too bloodshot, and sternly commanded his hand to stop shaking before it spilled hot coffee into his lap.

He tried to pay attention to the math lesson going on in front of him. Charlie had keyboarded a map onto the wall screen with his laptop, pointing out the ebbs and flows of monies that were involved with the Black Bart case. David tried to follow Charlie's logic and failed utterly.

"Hey, I can see where you're going with that, Charlie," Colby said, excitement overflowing. Charlie beamed. David glowered. Did they have to be so damn cheerful about it? And what the hell was Colby talking about, understanding one of Charlie's math lectures? Colby never understood math. It was a fact of life: Colby and math didn't mix. The man just accepted whatever Charlie said, used it, and went home happy at the end of the day. What was going to happen next, the sun rising in the West?

Don nodded slowly, understanding the mathematician as well. "Yeah. Even the warehouse at Fourth and Walnut fits in with your projections. We had a guy stationed outside, but only one low life showed. Turned out that he didn't get the word that the meet was cancelled. No surprise there; Viktor undoubtedly called Black Bart as soon as David and Colby let him go. What's next?"

"The statistics say that it's likely that he'll reschedule the operation," Charlie said, tapping up another graph. "That's his pattern. He has no hesitation in postponing something, but he'll almost always go ahead with whatever plan he's come up with eventually."

"Good with delaying gratification," Megan murmured. "This is a man who thinks things through. He won't be rushed into anything, no chasing after a quick profit. He's in this business for the long haul."

"Which fits with everything else," Don agreed. "Look at all the diversity he's got. If one line isn't doing so hot, another one picks up the slack. He's raking it in."

"Yes, but where is all of that money going to?" Charlie asked. The computer screen changed once again. David wished for sunglasses; this particular spreadsheet had a lot of white reflecting off of the silver wall screen. He settled for half-closing his eyes, hiding his face behind the coffee mug. He inhaled more of the welcome liquid energy. Charlie pointed to a column. "If you look here, and here, and here, you can see the surges in cash flow—"

_No, I can't. Just get to the punch line_.

"I see what you're saying, Charlie. We're looking at the top level of this operation. We're looking at how Black Bart directs the overall picture," Don said, grinning.

Charlie flashed a return grin. "Exactly. Now, look here, at this piece."

"The bookies," Megan identified the trail.

"Right. LAPD raided a couple at the same time, and you can see the dip in cash flow, see the shift toward the porn products and the extortion lines. Here, it's another grouping: there was a problem with the porn products, so drug distribution went up. All very very well-managed. But look here, at this piece." Charlie pointed, and David struggled to make heads or tails of it. "There was simultaneous hit on a bookie and one of his film studios got torched at the same time."

"I see it," Colby said. "The rumor was that Black Bart had some competition for his impending Academy Award. The rumor went on to say that the competition was last seen auditioning for a role as shark bait."

Charlie's smile faltered. "Yes, well, the point is," and he picked up the story, trying to avoid the less pleasant aspects, "that while this organization can easily handle the minor ebbs and flows of commerce, several concurrent events will put considerable strain on resources."

_Damn, I so need more caffeine! What the hell did Professor Eppes just say?_

"You're thinking that we need to hit more than one of his operations at the same time. Is that it?"

Did it _have_ to be _Colby_ doing the explaining?

"I'm liking it," Don announced. "We hit Black Bart in enough places, he's going to get scared. We can back him into a corner where he'll start making mistakes. Charlie, can you track the progress of what's happening?"

"You mean, through the financial picture?" Charlie shrugged. "Yes, but maybe not as quickly as you'll need. I have to wait for the numbers to come in, so you're looking at a twenty-four hour delay at least."

"Hm. That may not be good enough. We need to know what's happening a lot faster than that."

But Megan caught the beginnings of a smirk on Charlie's face. "And—?" she prompted.

Charlie nodded. "I can't track the progress quickly; I need hard data for that. But I can predict the outcome," he told the group. "By using various predictive methods of analysis, I can come up with the likely responses to stress on the organization. You push on a balloon in one spot, the force distributes itself to the rest of the surface of the balloon. But if you press in too many places, push too hard…"

"And it pops." Don grinned, the similar expression reminding the others in the group that the two were brothers. "Let's get to work, people. We need a plan to put pressure on Black Bart's balloon."

Charlie shut down his laptop. "You need me any more today, Don? I've got class in another hour."

"I wouldn't mind if you stuck around. Don't you need to be here for that predictive stuff you were talking about?"

"Not really. I can do it just as well from my office." Charlie gathered up his things, stuffing the techno-toy into its case. "Just feed me the data. I'll squeeze it in." _Between all my other stuff_, went unsaid.

"Right. I'll stop by later." Don moved on to the planning stage, gathering his people around him.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Don ambled up the front walk to the house where he grew up, his pace trying not to seem hurried. There was a small avalanche of paper in the manila file folder in his hands, data that he hoped would make sense to his brother. He let himself in, and sniffed. Yup, right time of day. The warm aroma of baking lasagna greeted him. "Hey, Dad."

"Hey, yourself." Alan Eppes grinned. "Behold the detective. He has an unerring sense for when I make lasagna for dinner. How do you manage it? Especially since I didn't know until a couple of hours ago that I was going to make it."

Don shrugged. "If I give away all my secrets, you'll know how I do it."

"You're an FBI agent, not a magician, oh son of mine." Alan Eppes struck a pose. "I, however, can see into men's minds. You are searching for a man, a man with dark curly hair and the ability to ignore anything and everything in his quest for unraveling the mysteries of the universe." Alan looked at his son. "Do you want Charlie first, or lasagna?"

"Is the lasagna ready?"

"No. Another half an hour."

"Then I want Charlie."

"Out in the garage, as usual. What a kid I raised," he mocked grumbled. "Doesn't want to spend time with his old man. He'd rather spend it in a dusty garage. Which reminds me; did I hear something about you cleaning out the back shed this weekend?"

Don held the expression tight on his face. It was his best look, the face that he used when bluffing out a tough one in Interrogation. "Maybe not this weekend. I'll get to it."

"Ah. Then it's true." His father wagged a finger at him. "While you're at it, you can throw away the junk that you left behind in there. Some of the mold is growing legs."

"Mold?"

"Yes, mold. What, you thought that Charlie was going to pawn off an easy job on you? Think again, bright boy. Your brother's the genius around here. Not you or me."

"Right," Don sighed. "Which is why he's got me doing his chores. Half an hour, you said? I'll be back."

He made his way out to the garage, not surprised to hear the squeak of a marker against the white board. "Hey, Charlie."

Silence. Except for the _squeaky squeaky_.

"Charlie!"

"What? Oh, sorry, Don. I didn't hear you come in. Lasagna ready yet?"

"Would I be here in this dusty garage if it was?"

"Good point. How's the shed coming along?"

"Haven't started it yet. Been busy. Trying to make headway on a case," Don added pointedly. "The shed will be there when I crack it."

"I may not be. Dad's threatening to kick me out of my own house if the place doesn't get cleaned up. You gave me an IOU," Charlie accused.

"Yeah, but I didn't say when. Gotta look at the contracts you sign, buddy." Don handed the file folder over. "I'll give it a start after dinner. This stuff help?"

Charlie piled into the papers that Don had given him, pouring over the data. His fingers hit the computer keyboard even before his backside slid onto the stool beside the table. "Yeah. You're hitting these three locations, closing 'em down?"

"Right. We've been holding off, trying to get a lead on how to take down the Big Cheese. You're sure this is going to work, Charlie? Putting the pressure on like this?"

Charlie shrugged. "We're working probabilities here, Don. It's _likely_ to work, but if you want money-back guarantees, buy a washing machine and dryer. I can plug in a lot of formulas and theorems, but, bottom-line, there's still that one chance in a million that your guy will do something unexpected."

"That's not helping, Charlie," Don complained. "I've got a lot riding on this."

"So do I. You think I _want_ to clean out the shed? With all your old crap in it?" He paused in his inputting. "When do you start applying the pressure?"

Don automatically glanced at his watch. "First thing tomorrow morning. I've got teams lined up; we're gonna raid a bookie joint, a film studio, and a warehouse for cocaine that we've suspected for some time. We've been waiting for the right moment." He grinned. "Sure hope this is the right moment. You going to be able to come down to Headquarters, plug in the data, make some more predictions?"

"Um. I've got a ten o'clock to teach, but I should be down early afternoon." Charlie perked up his ears. "Was that Dad? The lasagna ready?"

_And that lasagna_, Don reflected, _might be the only thing that could drag Charlie away from an unsolved puzzle._

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Eppes. I want to talk to you!"

Okay, another myth busted. Sparks didn't really fly off of linoleum, despite how angry the heels were. Special Agent Jelly Morton was proving that, right in front of him. Don turned, deliberately keeping a mild face. "Agent Morton? Lovely day, isn't it?"

"What the hell do you think you're doing, horning in on my case?"

_Payback time!_ "Your case, Agent Morton? I'm not certain what you mean."

"You know exactly what I mean, Eppes! You're pissed because I've been cracking cases where you failed! So now you're trying to screw me up! Not going to work, hear me, Eppes? It's not going to work! You can pull all the cheap raids you want, but you're not going to get in my way!"

Ah. Special Agent Morton had just found out about the three simultaneous operations that Don and his team had initiated. Okay, so sparks didn't fly off of the flooring, but they were sure shooting out of Morton's blue eyes. If Don had been a paper target, his bull's eye would have completely demolished by now. _And, damn, it felt good!_ Okay, maybe it shouldn't have, but it did just the same. Don took refuge in departmental protocol. "Look, Morton. I have nothing against you. If you can solve cases that I couldn't, more power to you. That makes us all look good. But right now I'm working a major case, with a lot of angles, and that means a lot of resources. A lot of resources that I cleared with the Area Director _in advance_, I might add. You can look at my case files just as easily as I can at yours." _Maybe easier, went unsaid. You don't put in half the details that everyone else needs to keep clear of whatever you're contemplating_. "If you thought that something I had planned was going to compromise a case of yours, you should have come to me. Or to the Area Director, if you felt that you couldn't come to me." _Cheap jab. Can't talk to your fellow agents, Morton?_

"All my sources are running scared," Morton forced out between gritted teeth. "You've set me back a week or more."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Don returned politely. He hardened his voice. "I'm also sorry that your porn raid two days ago ruined _three months_ of undercover work and almost got David Sinclair killed. From _your _case files, I had understood that you were concentrating on the Central Square district. Tell me, Agent Morton, how did you get from Central Square over to Brick Wall Studios so quickly? Did you get a lead from a source? That information wasn't clear from your case files."

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Morton sneered. "You're not the only one to use a variety of sources, Eppes. And I'll talk to whoever I damn well please!" She turned her back and stalked away.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Don returned coldly. This woman had a major chip on her shoulder, and for the life of him Don couldn't figure out what she was talking about. Had he talked to someone that she was working? Maybe sent the guy running? If so, that was still Morton's fault. If she'd communicated better, Don and his team would have kept hands off.

_Maybe_. For all her successes, Don had a much longer and better history and was entrusted with higher profile cases. Morton, if she kept on the way she was going, would get there but she still had a couple more years of proving herself ahead of her.

Of course, if she kept on antagonizing people here in the L.A. office, she'd start bouncing from city to city…his thoughts trailed off.

Which is when he tracked down Megan Reeves.

"I see your thoughts are moving in the same direction that mine are," the profiler greeted him. "I have a Quantico classmate up at Seattle, and yes, I gave her a ring."

"And—?" Don prompted.

"Our little Miss Special Agent Morton made quite a name for herself in Seattle," Megan informed him. "One that she liked, one that she didn't. The one that she liked involved cracking cases, getting commendations, building her resume with some solid investigative work."

"And the one she didn't?"

"The word was out for the other teams to protect their sources from her. Nobody would work with her unless directly ordered to do so and even then, they'd only give her what she asked for and nothing more. That was when she put in for a transfer."

Don nodded. It made sense. Use up one office, then transfer to another to begin the process over again. "Where was she before Seattle? And how did she get the nickname Jelly?"

Megan leaned back in her chair. "You ever listen to jazz?"

"Yeah. New Orleans stuff? The stuff coming out of New York?"

"Early jazz." Megan chewed on a pencil. "It seems that our little Miss Hot Shot is fond of early jazz. There was a New Orleans pianist named Jelly Roll Morton who lived in the late 1800's through the early Twentieth Century. Claimed to have invented jazz, although that's up for grabs. Certainly he had a big effect on the music of his time, leading into today. And," Megan's eyes glistened wickedly, "he had a reputation for being difficult, among other things."

"Like our own Morton."

"I wasn't going to say that," Megan said demurely. "And there's some evidence suggesting that Morton's—Jelly Roll's—real last name was actually Mouton. That he Anglicized it to Morton for public consumption." Another wicked smile. "Nobody knows who christened Jessica 'Jelly'. The most likely suspects in the Seattle office are keeping their collective mouths shut."

"It fits," Don sighed. "And your opinion of Ms. Morton, Agent Reeves?"

"Professionally or personally?"

"I'm not looking to date her," Don grimaced. "But we do have to work with her. Team work tends to be a priority around here."

"That's going to be difficult," Megan said. "Personalities like hers tend to stem from lack of recognition during childhood. She's currently getting what she wants; accolades for her work. I don't see any reason for her to change her behavior, Don. Not at present."

"In other words, we try to work around her."

Megan nodded. "And cover our asses. She'll exploit any weakness. Suspects' weaknesses, or ours."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Don looked at his watch. "Where is he? He said he'd be here by one."

"Relax," Colby advised. He tilted the chair back on two legs, stretching his legs. "He probably got held up in traffic."

"Yeah, but his class was over before twelve. Since when does it take an hour to get here from CalSci?" Don pulled out his cell. "Charlie? Where are you, man? I thought you said that you'd get here by one?" Pause. "What do you mean, you're already here? Where, here?" Pause. Longer pause, with time for an angry glint to creep onto Don's face. Colby went still; he'd seen that look before and he didn't want it aimed at him. "Look, you stay there. I'll be right down."

Colby carefully kept his tone mild, as mild as the frozen look on his boss's face that said that Don was just barely keeping it under wraps. "Charlie's here? He just walk in?"

"No." Don paused at the door. "He's with Morton."

Colby waited until Don was out the door before saying, "crap."


	3. Tug of War 3

This was the point, Charlie had thought, where everyone was supposed to laugh. Where everyone acknowledged that one hand didn't know what the other was doing, and wasn't it a good thing that they were finding out about it now instead of later, during an actual operation, when it mattered? When someone could get killed?

It wasn't working out that way. Charlie knew that from the instant he heard Don's hand on the doorknob into Special Agent Morton's office. Knew that his brother was _way_ beyond angry. Knew that something was wrong, big time. The mathematician was more than willing to admit that he wasn't the best person at recognizing the feelings of others, but a person in a coma could have felt all the angry vibes emanating from Don Eppes.

It wasn't the voice. "Hey, Charlie." The tone was mild. The tone promised retribution in the future. The tone was all the more scary for that. Charlie recognized it from all the times when the big brother had pounded the little brother, and found that it sounded even worse now that they were both adults. Don looked his brother straight in the eye. "Glad you could make it." Don swiveled his gaze upon Morton. "I didn't realize that you two knew each other."

Charlie was clueless. There was something going on here, and Charlie hadn't the faintest idea what it was. Had he screwed up? "Actually, Jessica and I—"

"Charlie and I," Morton cut in, battling down the triumph, "were working a case, Agent Eppes. Dr. Eppes very kindly offered to help me determine the locations of some of the porn studios that I've been after. And, since he'd already been cleared by the Department and his services successfully used by other agency personnel, I took him up on his offer. _Most_ helpful, Agent Eppes. I recommend him highly."

Don seemed to have trouble finding his words. Charlie got more nervous. "Don, I—"

Morton lifted her chin. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Agent Eppes, Dr. Eppes and I have work to do. We pay him hourly, you know, and his services are in great demand." She turned her back on Don, putting her finger onto the map on the table in front of Charlie.

"Charlie," and Don's voice was somewhat strangled, "go upstairs to my office."

"Stay right where you are, Charlie!" Morton snapped back, whirling on the senior agent. "I got him first, Eppes! You don't get first crack at him just because he's your brother! Is that how you solve your cases? Can't you do your own work, Eppes?"

The pieces jolted into place. "So that's how you figured out where to raid. _Charlie_ gave you the Brick Wall Studios location. I knew you hadn't come up with it on your own. None of your case filings had come anywhere close." He snorted. "And you have the nerve to accuse _me_ of not doing my own work? If Charlie solves all my cases for me, then what's he doing here in your office, Morton? Maybe we should all just resign and let Charlie run the FBI all by himself?"

"I don't solve anyone's cases," Charlie protested faintly. "I just do math."

Neither combatant spared him any attention. "You can't stand the thought of someone else here for the competition," Morton hissed. "So used to having things your own way, having people bow and scrape and look up to you. News flash, Eppes: party time is _over!_ It's time to do some real work for a change! That is, if you think you're up to it!"

"I've been 'up to it' since before you were ever accepted at Quantico," Don flared back. "What's eating you, Morton? Huh? What's your problem?"

"I'll…just…head up to Don's office," Charlie offered faintly. "You guys, uh, let me know what you've decided."

"_You're_ my problem, Eppes! You think you run this place! You think you can do whatever you want, whenever you want, and that people will just let you—"

Charlie quietly let himself out, closing the door behind him. It didn't help much; the noise was still seeping through the walls, and a crowd was gathering. Charlie mustered a weak smile. "They're, uh, discussing office protocols," he said, and escaped to the elevator.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"If you look at this as a table, it doesn't appear to make much sense." Prof. Eppes was in full swing. "The numbers appear random, and the correlations unclear."

"Yeah. Unclear," Colby agreed, going for the double meaning. He stared at the 'random' table of digits that the screen was giving to them. The digits themselves stood out in bold relief, even if the understanding of said digits was fuzzy.

"But—" Megan prompted.

Charlie grinned. Trust Megan to feed him a straight line. "Now let's put this into a map format. Let's put this Fusco Street extortion ring here in the north, the cocaine distribution center in the east, and so forth."

"Not to make a bad pun, but where are you going with this map, Charlie?" David asked.

"Ouch." Charlie winced. "Remind me not to use that particular analogy with my current freshman class. They'll cut me to ribbons." He turned back to the image projected onto the wall. "Now let's tease out the larger quantities of cash flow and apply them to our map. Let's start with the largest ten percent." He tapped a few keys on his laptop. The Fusco Street location grew in size, and several other 'locations' diminished.

"Okay," David said doubtfully. "Keep going."

"The next largest ten percent." More tapping, and the Fusco Street location grew larger. Some of the others dots also expanded, but more shrunk. "If you look at these three places—here, here, and here—"

"Hey, those are the places that we hit this morning," Colby recognized delightedly. "Those spots are shrinking. You're saying that we made a difference."

"Maybe," Charlie corrected. "Remember, this is all speculation, based on probabilities. I've plugged the data into the behavioral analysis models, and this is what is coming up. With the information that you gave me, I'm estimating that the cash flows have altered in this fashion."

"Translation: we're making a difference," Colby grinned. "I can get behind that."

Charlie sighed. "Right."

"So where do we go from here?"

All three of the agents jumped; not one of them had seen or heard Don slip in.

"Don," Charlie greeted his brother, trying not to let the nerves show. "Did you, uh, get it resolved?"

The smile on his brother's face did little to reassure anyone. "Almost," Don replied. "Does your analysis suggest a plan of action?"

"Having concrete data to put in will increase reliability—"

"Plan of action, Charlie."

"This model only reflects the behavior—"

"What does your damn model say to do next, Charlie?" The volume didn't rise one iota but the intensity did.

"Don—"

Megan pushed in, trying to defuse the rampant tension, looking from one Eppes brother to the other. "I think what we need to look at next is where we can affect this model the most. How can we stress Blackburn's organization, and cause more errors? What's their most vulnerable point?"

That Charlie could answer without getting himself into hot water. "The Fusco Street extortion racket," he replied promptly. "I'll be able to say this with more certainty in another six hours, once the data from the financial networks comes in, but right now, that looks like the optimal target."

"Good," Don grunted. "Where else?"

"Else?" Charlie asked.

"Yeah. You know, next best target, number two on the hit parade, that sort of thing. I want to hit these guys fast and hard before anyone has a chance to recover." He eyed the group, almost daring anyone to argue.

No one did. Megan exchanged a glance with David, but that was all.

Charlie gulped. "Here. This place. Another studio."

Don peered at the screen. "Bed of Thorns Productions. Cute. Another of Blackburn's finest porn studios. This'll hurt Blackburn?"

"Uh, yeah. Assuming my projections are accurate."

"We'll split up," Don told them. "David, I want you to run the operation on the Fusco extortion racket. Hit 'em fast, hit 'em hard, and demolish the place. I don't care if they're back out on the streets in twenty minutes. Hassle 'em. Interrupt the flow. Hurt 'em in the wallet. Take Colby with you; I'll leave the details in your hands. Plan to move at," Don glanced at his watch, "at four thirty. Can do?"

"Can do," David affirmed. "You?"

"Megan, you and I will be taking out that Bed of Thorns place. We'll plan to go in at four thirty, just like David and Colby. You start calling for the troops; I'll go for the warrants, on both places. Any questions? All right, start the presses, people. We've got work to do."

Charlie edged toward the door. "I'll head back to my office, if you need me." _Escape_ would have been a more apt description than _head back_.

"Hold up, Charlie." More steel, encased in ice. "Stick around for a moment." Don waited until the others had left, not failing to notice the _good luck_ look that Megan tried to comfort Charlie with as she walked out through the door.

Charlie did his best to look innocent. "Don?"

There were times when Don would get his best results by beating around the bush. This was not one of those times. Don went straight for the throat. "When the hell did you start working for Jelly Morton?"

Charlie swallowed hard. "Don, I thought that she was from you." It didn't help to have his brother's steely-eyed glare aimed at him. If he were a criminal, Charlie thought, he'd be crumpling like a wad of used tissue paper. "You know. Like when Megan or David or Colby stop by. That's all, Don. I thought she was from you. I didn't really offer to help. She showed up at my office, with data. It wasn't until you brought some of the same data over that I realized that she wasn't working on your team," he finished up weakly. "Kind of, after you left, I realized it. Kind of after two AM."

His brother eyed him as if he could drag more confession out of his brother by simply looking at him. _Probably could_, Charlie reflected uncomfortably. Don kept staring. "What else did you tell her?"

Another hard swallow. "Uh, nothing. I think. I mean, she came over with data, just as you did, only not as much. I used the data to pull out points of commonalities, then used some locator algorithms to determine another likely spot. That's all," he said defensively. "In fact, because you gave me the same data, she has the Bed of Thorns location, too."

"Too? Morton has the name and place, too?" Don almost got angry, then thought better of it. A slow smile replaced the snarl. "She's got the same lead," he mused. "_Oh_, yeah."

"Don?"

The smile got broader. Don hung his arm over his brother's shoulders. The black cloud that had darkened the office vanished like fog under the onslaught of the morning sun. "You just head back to your office, Charlie. I'll take care of things on this end."

"Don?" What did his brother have in mind? And why wasn't Don still pounding on him? Just because they were adults didn't mean that an older brother didn't still beat up on his younger. They just went about it in a more adult fashion: verbally. Don's grin did nothing to help assuage Charlie's anxiety.

"You just go back to your office," Don repeated. He cracked his knuckles. "I'll let you know how this plays out. _Comes_ out, I mean."

"Don?" Charlie asked warningly. His brother had something in mind; something devious, no doubt. "So it's okay that I talked to Agent Morton?"

Don nodded to himself, and his grin was positively evil. "More than okay, buddy. Just let me know if Jelly Morton knocks on your door again. Wouldn't want to overwork you."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Report, Special Agent Morton?" Don asked formally, watching three cameramen, one director, and six 'actors'—four adult and two minors—get shepherded past with handcuffs decorating all sets of wrists. Six burly FBI agents had shouldered the movie-making equipment, heading for the Evidence Room, to tag the stuff for later judicial proceedings. Don had to work hard to suppress the smirk that would be uncalled for under the present circumstances. This had been a highly successful raid, closing down an illegal shop that used minors in a most unbecoming fashion. The kids weren't appreciating the efforts expended on their behalf at the moment, but Don consoled himself that they would eventually. _As soon as they get the drugs de-toxed out of their adolescent bodies, they'll appreciate it. When they grow up to be happier adults, they'll look back and appreciate it even more._

Morton looked as though she wanted to bite through her lip. No, Don reflected, what the agent _really_ wanted to do was to bury the senior agent under six feet of filthy sand. But she set her jaw and bulled it through, refusing to meet his eyes as she delivered the report to the special agent in charge. "We pulled in two more besides these that you see here, two financial types that happened to be on the premises watching the shoots. We're still going through the books to see what leads we can dig out. That will take my team a while. A _long_ while," she added, daring Don to disagree with her.

"Satisfactory," Don told her, trying not to let the superior air leak through too much. _Damn_, it felt good! It had felt good when the thought had struck him while talking to Charlie, and it had felt even better when he had gone to the Area Director, explaining that Morton's case had turned out to be a small part—ever so small part—of his own. And that it would be a wise and efficient use of manpower to have Morton conduct the raid on Bed of Thorns Studios with her own team under Don's supervision. And Area Director D'Angelo, always mindful of the need to save the taxpayers' money, had agreed and then commended Don for his fiscal responsibility.

Of course Morton hadn't been happy when the directive had been handed to her on a silver platter. Don had enjoyed that piece as well. _If looks could kill_… But Morton was too good to argue in front of the Area Director. She played the game of office politics very well, Don reflected. Taking a while to go through the studio books? Not that long. Blackburn didn't keep all that much on the books. Morton would be trying to keep Don from getting those leads.

Not a problem. Porn leads were not what Don was after. He wanted Blackburn himself, the kingpin, not a mere single aspect of the organized crime operation. If Morton wanted to keep chipping away at the porn studios, let her. If a studio was big, it would hurt Blackburn and help Don with his own work. If it was a small studio, it wouldn't matter to either Blackburn or Don himself. And it would keep Morton busy, and not annoying Don while the real work went on.

Megan moved up beside Don, both of them watching Jelly Morton question one of the financial types that she'd pulled in. Don favored her with a look. "You finish with the kids?"

Megan nodded. "Child Protective is on their way over to pick them up. They'll stash them in Juvie Detention, at least overnight until we'll sure that they won't try to run away from a less secure home. The boy is pretty young, but the girl is a tough cookie."

"You get anything from them?" That was what Don was more interested in at the moment.

Megan sighed. "We'll pick up the people who were keeping them. Morton's already detailed a couple of her people to do that. But the kids don't have anything we can use. They just get high, and then go and get abused on film for sick people to watch."

"Who did the kids' interrogation? You or Morton?"

"Gary Metzger did it, Don," Megan told him with slight reproof. "He's got a couple of his own kids at home. And you know that Morton wasn't about to let me near her suspects without a direct order from the Area Director. Gary's on her team, and he did a good job. I watched."

Don accepted the mild rebuke and turned his attention back to the adult interrogation going on in the mirrored room in front of him. Morton was pacing around the suspect—_hell, call the man a criminal. The trial would be a formality. The guy had been caught with his pants down, both figuratively and literally_—and getting into his face, demanding answers. Then the next moment she switched gears, playing both good cop/bad cop herself.

"She's good," Megan observed. "That man will break in another minute or two."

"Yeah," Don grunted. He folded his arms, watching. Morton leaned on the table, pushing her face a scant two inches from the suspect's nose, the rest of her not too far behind. In the man's state, having just been dragged from the porn studio, his brains were the consistency of lumpy oatmeal. He was terrified, and he was panting with his tongue hanging out, and he couldn't figure out which to be more of. Morton played on that.

"Who's your boss?" she purred, sliding around behind him, letting fingers drag seductively along the back of the suspect's neck. "He's not going to be very happy, is he?"

"You can't hold me. I didn't do anything." The man was doing his best to not cooperate.

Megan flicked a glance at Don. "Hasn't yet remembered that he can ask for a lawyer."

Don only grunted once again, concentrating on Morton's interrogation.

"Oh, I can hold you for as long as I want," Morton cooed. She slipped in front of the suspect, leaned seductively over the table. "Is that what you want, baby? Someone to hold you, tear your clothes off? Got plenty of those where you're going to end up. They'll be happy to hold you down, just like those kids got held down. They'll be overjoyed, once they find out that you helped abuse a couple of kids. Got you on _tape_, baby. Starring in one of your boss's finest productions." Morton settled onto her elbows on the table in front of the suspect, all but letting herself hang out of her clothing. The suspect's eyes were riveted to her chest, and Morton was using that. "And it's gonna be a _long_ time before you see the light of day. I've got you, baby. I've got you wrapped so tight your shorts squeak. Of course," she added thoughtfully, picking herself back up off of the table, "I might be persuaded to talk to the D.A. If I had a reason to." She drifted off invitingly, encouraging the man to speak. She tucked her shirt back into her pants, pulling herself into a more sedate posture.

The suspect was broken. "Blackburn'll kill me." The sound was barely above a whisper. Don had to lean into the window to hear it.

"Not if he can't find you, baby." Morton settled on the carrot approach. "Give him up, and I'll make sure that you never get friendly with the bad boys in San Quentin."

The suspect blanched. The reality of his situation was sinking in fast, and his nerve was sinking along with it. "I…"

"You're just an accountant," Morton soothed. "You didn't really do anything bad. But Blackburn'll make you take the fall for this. He's just gonna keep on partying, have a good time, while you rot behind bars. He's not even gonna remember you when you get out in fifteen to twenty, is he? Not gonna remember a simple bean counter. Not gonna care about the loyalty that you showed."

She shifted away from him. "You gotta look out for yourself. You've got a family, right? Wife, and a kid? How are you going to take care of them when you're behind bars? You think Blackburn is going to do that for you? You know him. Is he like that?"

"No." The answer came out low.

Don caught the small hidden smile that Morton quashed.

"So you're gonna talk to me. And I'm gonna talk to the D.A. And we're gonna get you protection, baby, for you and for your family, right?"

"Right." This sound was even lower.

Morton pushed a pad of paper over to him. "Write, baby. Write down everything you know."

The interrogation was finished.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Wow. This opens up at least a dozen new possibilities," Charlie breathed, looking at the copy of the spreadsheets. He flipped through the pages. The information was too great to be contained on a single sheet of paper. "Don, your suspect is a genius. Look at these numbers!"

"But you can beat Blackburn, right?" It was not what Don wanted to hear. What Don wanted to hear was something along the lines of _you can pick up the scumbag right now_.

Charlie gave Don an almost pitying look. "It's not a case of 'beating' him," Charlie explained, trying not to talk as though Don was a student in one of Charlie's less ambitious freshman calc classes. "What's that old line? 'Follow the money'. That's what we have here, Don. I see ten more loci—places where money is being directed to—that weren't referenced in the original data that you gave to me. Don, I'm starting to believe that your suspect has his finger in a lot more pies that you think."

"You can trace him? Where the money is flowing to?"

"Well, yeah." As if that were a given. Charlie scanned the data again. "It may take me a little time. There's a lot of information here, and some of it is in code."

"Code. That's your specialty."

But Charlie was already off in his own world. "If I use a Directed Flow Analysis, I can separate the different avenues of monies and…" he trickled off.

Don stared at the man. He was used to his brother delving into the mysteries of math, and it never ceased to amaze him at how Charlie could suddenly block out everything else. A bomb could go off in the next room, and Charlie wouldn't be aware of it until he completed the equation or problem or whatever he was working on. "You need a lift home? Back to CalSci?" As in, _you gonna wrap the car around a telephone pole by not paying attention to traffic?_

"'mm." Charlie was drifting toward the exit, his attention still pinned to the data.

"I'm getting you a driver," Don announced, picking up the phone to the front desk. "Meet him downstairs. I'd do it myself, buddy, but I gotta go over the results of the Fusco interrogation with David and Colby. You gonna wait for the driver?"

"'mm." Charlie bumped into the door frame, rebounded, and continued on his way to the elevator, oblivious to the world.

Don spoke into the phone, watching his brother bump his way into the elevator. "Marcy? Listen, it's Don Eppes. Charlie's on his way down and out the door. Yeah, that's right, he's zoning out on numbers again. Can you make sure he gets someone to drive him back to CalSci? I don't trust him like this. Yeah, that's right. Thanks, Marcy. I owe you one."

Problem solved. The older receptionist, already fond of Don's brother in a motherly sort of way, would make sure that Charlie got a lift back. Don himself would arrange to get his brother's vehicle over there a bit later, and the academic world would have less chance of losing an eccentric math genius to his own foolishness.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jelly Morton, _chauffeur extraordinaire_ for the moment, trailed after Charlie into the Math Building. "So this is your office?" She smiled, inviting him to invite her in. "It's nice. I thought college professors all got stuck into broom closets."

"Yeah." Charlie tried to shuffle a wad of papers into something resembling neatness, his attention torn between his guest and his equations. Several mounds of numbers had aligned themselves into key distribution nodes in his mind, and he was eager to get to his white board in order to start manipulating those nodes into comprehensive data. "Sorry about the mess."

"I've seen worse." Morton seemed in no hurry to leave. She traced her finger along the white board. "What's that?"

"That?" Charlie peered at what she was looking at. "Oh, that's the analysis that I did for Don. You know, the one that led to today's raids."

"Ah. The Bed of Thorns thing." Morton nodded wisely.

"Yes. And the Fusco Street extortion ring," Charlie added.

"The Fusco Street extortion ring?" Morton kept her voice carefully casual. "I hadn't realized that that was part of the operation. You must have come up with a lot more information for your brother. Were there other sites that you found for him?"

Charlie was already jotting numbers onto the white board. "Yes. Most people don't realize it, but tracing people and organizations through electronic means is one of the most effective methods of law enforcement. It's almost impossible to hide all traces of every activity. Somewhere in here will be traceable flows of currency, and, just like Newton's Third Law of Energy Conservation, what goes in, must come out. It has to come out somewhere. The trick is to find it. Like here." He pointed to a column of numbers. Morton tried to look as though she was following his train of thought. "Here we have another money flow. This part of it is being channeled to the Fusco Street Extortion ring, but this part is going somewhere else."

"Where?"

"Good question." Charlie stared at the numbers. There was a column of jumbled letters to the left. "I think this name is in code. Wait a minute." He interrupted himself, grabbing a piece of paper to jot something down, something that his mind wasn't holding with its overflow of data. "Hah. I was right. Simple exchange code. This part of the money flow is going to another extortion ring, here on Barker Ave. Hmm." He peered more closely, as if proximity would help him to solve the equation. "This looks significantly larger than the Fusco Street operation."

"Barker Avenue?"

"That's right. It's—"

"And it's a bigger operation?"

"I think so. The cash flow is certainly larger." Charlie scribbled something onto the board. "This is intriguing. I'm finding at least four different loci with substantially larger sums being sent back and forth. Each time the money is transferred, laundering of the money takes place. On the third pass, the money gets diverted to yet a larger fund that doesn't appear to be associated with any sort of business, either legal or illegal. It's as though that's the end point for all of this activity. Agent Morton, I'm thinking…"

He trailed off. The room was empty. Special Agent Morton had already left.

Charlie shrugged. Not unusual. In his brother's world, people tended to take what they needed from his math and then move on to use it where ever they saw the need. He turned back to the information on the spreadsheets that Don had given to him. The equations wouldn't be astoundingly difficult, but inputting the data into the computer so that the information could get crunched was going to take time. _Hmm. I suppose I could get a couple of undergrads to help; dangle the promise of some extra credit…_


	4. Tug of War 4

Colby racked his rifle in the Weapons Room with a grunt of satisfaction. It was close quarters inside the area, with several dozen gleaming barrels lined up against the walls. One shelf was reserved for boxes of ammo. "Don't know about you, David, but I enjoyed that. The expression on that dude's face when we knocked down the door is something that I am going to cherish for the next week."

"Yeah." David's face too lit up with the memory. He set down the clipboard where he'd accounted for everything that came back in. "Don, you should have seen it. That goon Dietrich went for his weapon—you remember him? The guy with the triceps the size of cantaloupes?—so little Becky Masters grabbed him and slammed him face first onto the table. You know Becky, the woman that nobody thought would be able to pass the physical because she's so tiny? This Dietrich guy thought the same thing. He's now got a black eye. She decked him when he tried to push her over. None of us were needed to help Becky take him down."

"Yeah, but is he singing?" Don moved on to more important issues. "Charlie needs more data to funnel into that analysis of his. The Fusco Street stuff is only one tip of one iceberg."

Dark cloud time. Don saw David's shoulders slump. "We got some, but not a lot," he admitted. "And, Don, the lawyers are already gathering like a flock of vultures. That entire mob should be out of here soon. I heard a couple of the suits making bets as to how long it would take them to spring the suspects. The odds-on favorite is under twenty minutes."

"That fast?" Don winced. "Well, we expected nothing less. Blackburn's people are good. That's why we're putting in a lot of time and energy on this. The plan is to make Blackburn put in more time and energy than we are."

"Sure hope you got more from the porn studio," Colby grumbled.

Don's mood lightened. "Let's just say that I got what I expected from it," he grinned.

"Morton pissed?"

"_Oh_, yeah. Big time." The memory pasted itself across his mind with lots of twinkling lights. The anger that Special Agent Morton fought to control was sheer joy to watch. _Shouldn't be getting so much satisfaction out of it but hey, I'm only human_. "Let's just say that she's going to think twice about cutting corners around here. _And_ trying to grab Charlie."

"Yeah. That was low," Colby agreed. "Where is he?"

"Charlie? I sent him back to his office. He works better there, or so he says." Don glanced at his watch. "I'll drop in on him tonight, take his car to him. I made him take a driver. The guy was so blitzed on the data that I watched him walk into a wall." Don shook his head. "Better him than me. You know how often he used to do that as a kid? Had an average of six bruises on any given day. He used to get me into trouble all the time; Dad thought that I was pounding on him, until one day when Charlie did it in front of Dad." Don smiled, remembering. "My father apologized to me. Did it right, apologized in front of everyone. Then he took me to the next baseball game. Don't remember who was playing, just recall feeling like I'd scored a home run with bases loaded." He sighed, sending the memory back for a replay at another time. "Look, it's getting late, guys. Let's call it a day. We did some good work today, and we'll have more tomorrow. As soon as Charlie comes up with more targets, we'll move to hit 'em. The faster we chip away at Blackburn, the quicker he'll fold."

David picked up his jacket. "That's my cue for an exit." He mock saluted. "See you tomorrow."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_You make your own luck_. The line sang through Jelly Morton's head as she raced her Miata through the streets of L.A., wishing for an acceptable excuse to hit the sirens. And at the moment, Jelly had made a lot of very good luck.

It had been almost quitting time when she'd finally finished with the interrogation of the Bed of Thorns accountant, the interrogation made all the more annoying with that smart ass Eppes looking through the one way mirror. She couldn't see him, and neither could the low life that she'd hauled from the raid, but she knew that he was there, watching. She could _feel_ him, almost as though he were breathing down her neck. Then he'd run off, couldn't wait for her report on how it went. Couldn't be bothered.

He thought he was something, that Don Eppes. Thought he owned this hunk of FBI territory. A couple of lucky breaks, including being born with a genius for a brother at his beck and call, and Eppes was off and running and shoving everyone else out of his way. Just like now: going to the Area Director and forcing her to run the raid on Bed of Thorns before she was ready. This was her case, not his! And if it turned out to be a little bigger than she'd anticipated? Well, what of it? There was no reason why she shouldn't take over the whole thing! It was time for _Eppes_ to get out of the way, make room for somebody else with a smidgeon of smarts.

Fate obviously looked at the situation the same way. Why else would she have been lucky enough to be walking out through the front door when Charlie Eppes stepped off of the elevator and dumped all of the data—data that _she'd_ pulled in, thank you very much!—onto the linoleum floor? Morton recognized the papers immediately, helping Charlie to pick them up. And when Marcy at Reception had taken that call from Eppes asking for someone to drive his baby brother home? Hah! Opportunity didn't have to knock twice at Jelly Morton's door. She'd winked at Marcy, taken Charlie by the arm, and dragged the little genius off to her car. Maybe the kid was a genius, but somehow Morton doubted that Charlie had even noticed what had happened. All through the drive back to his office the only thing the math whiz could do was stare at the data and mutter, something about analytical chains and Poisson Distributions and Einstein knew what else. Have to admit, that was different. Usually guys in Morton's presence tended to mutter incoherently while staring at her chest, not at numbers on a piece of paper. Morton wasn't sure if she liked the change or not.

She slipped into his office behind him, just to get a look at where this guy hung out. Another sliver of luck! The professor latched onto his whiteboard, jotting down more Greek symbols and mumbling arcane mumbo-jumbo, and finally came up with the comment that there were more spots that Eppes was going to go after.

And, miracles of miracles!, the man even gave her the location of one of the big ones: the Barker Street extortion ring. That was one that Morton wasn't familiar with but that wasn't surprising. Morton had only been assigned here in L.A. for three months, not enough time to become familiar with all the ins and outs of crime on the street.

Not a problem. This was what case files were for. This is what the local flatfoots were for, keeping tabs on the little ones poised to take that giant leap into the Major Nuisance category. And from there, it was only a short step into Ready For Take-Down.

Morton grinned. Her own plan of action was clear: research the Barker Street ring. Step two: inform the Area Director of her intentions. That was the ploy that Eppes had just used, and it would be welcome payback for Morton to extend that same 'courtesy'. And step three: hit the place hard and fast. Fast, before Eppes could get wind of her plan and stop her.

Step four: take over the case, solve it, and rub Eppes' nose in it.

Yeah. That would feel damn good.

Jelly Morton liked to feel good.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Don trotted up the staircase in the CalSci Math building. The elevator was out again, not that it mattered. Three flights; not that much. And Don tended to distrust the elevator in this old building. Kept reminding him of that time in Albuquerque, New Mexico, chasing after that bail jumper, what was his name? Didn't matter. Lost him when the damn elevator went out and trapped Don inside with three bad-smelling cross country runners who had just finished a ten kay workout. The only thing good about that slice of life was that there wasn't the obligatory woman-in-labor-having-a-baby along with them. Don had gotten out of the elevator after three long hours and gone on to track the bail jumper down in four more days. Should've taken one, he grumbled to himself. Bottom line: Don was taking the stairs.

He also had Chinese in his hand. From long experience Don knew that his brother could forget anything and everything in his pursuit of a mathematical answer. Food was really way down on the list of Important Things To Remember To Do.

He poked his head into Charlie's office. Knocking rarely elicited any acknowledgement. Only if Charlie was working on grading tests or other mundane chores would that work. This was also a test of Don's private method for figuring out how far Charlie had come on one of Don's cases: if Charlie looked up and saw him, he was either finished or almost finished with the answer for Don and was ready to babble about it incessantly. If his brother ignored him, then Don could quietly put the Chinese food on his desk and leave without disturbing the man. The food might or might not get consumed, but the answer would always come along eventually.

"Charlie?"

"Hey, Don."

Grin. A response was good. "Hey, Charlie. How's it coming? You making any progress?"

"Don, this stuff is unbelievable." His brother was off and running. Verbiage spewed forth. "Whoever this Blackburn is, he's a financial genius. Look at this." Charlie pointed to a slew of numbers that meant nothing to Don. "This is where Blackburn invested a couple million into the Fusco Street thing, before your raid. They, in turn, applied pressure to these legal merchants, here," pointing to another quartet of figures, "who then supplied goods to the Wall of Thorns," yet another grouping of numerals, "and then the proceeds went—"

"Okay, okay, I get the picture. Sort of." Don cut Charlie off before his eyeballs started spinning in his head. "This guy Blackburn is a genius. But he's an illegal genius, buddy. Need to take him down. Where's the next hit point?"

"Actually, I've got four, all equivalent in importance to each other."

"I only need two, Charlie. Which are the best?"

"All four, Don. They're equal, pretty much. There's not much to chose between them. In order to affect one, and to affect the entire organization, you should remove all four of the loci."

"Four?" Don winced. "Charlie, that's a lot of manpower involved. Can't you narrow it down any further?"

Charlie lifted his shoulders. "Don, I crunch the numbers, I don't tell them where to go. Like I said, this guy is a genius. You're going to need to hit a lot of places in a short period of time to significantly impact his operations. Chipping away at the edges probably isn't going to have much effect. All he has to do is to shift resources to another area and resume business as usual."

"So you're saying that if we don't hit them all, we might as well give up and go home."

"Not what I said, but it's a thought," Charlie admitted. "Chipping away at the edges was a good idea with the information that we originally had, but this new data changes that. It's a factor of Blackburn appearing to have more resources than the FBI. Manpower resources, that is."

"Got that right," Don groaned. "FBI has stricter hiring policies, too." But the cogs started turning. "So, bottom line, we need to figure out a way to hit Blackburn where it hurts with the manpower that we have. Like, when they took out Al Capone with tax evasion? Any chance we can use that? You're looking at the finance stuff."

"Don't think so." Charlie shook his head. He pointed to another set of numbers. "If I could _prove_ that Blackburn was receiving all of these funds, then I'd say yes. But this flow of funds is going to an off-shore account, and there's no way to determine ownership beyond a legal shadow of a doubt. Like I said, this guy is brilliant. He's got pipelines from these four places, maybe more, channeling the funds into several off-shore accounts. Likewise, he's got alternate avenues for retrieving those funds when one or more of his local businesses needs an influx of cash. All very neat, and legally untraceable."

"Wait a minute." Don stared at the numbers. They made no sense to him whatsoever, but they served as a focal point for his gaze. "You said four points. Can you identify those points? Are they businesses here in the L.A. area?"

"I suppose." Charlie looked at the data. "They're only identified by code letters, but it shouldn't take too much more work to unscramble the letters. I've already done it for one, just as an exercise, earlier."

"Any chance we can put a plug in those pipelines? Take out the tunnel that the money is going through?"

Charlie frowned. And blinked. "Haven't a clue, Don. That's legal stuff. That's really hard."

Don fought to keep from rolling his eyes. "Okay, I need to bring in the D.A. on this one with her education in 'legal stuff'. What kind of facts can you give me? Where do I attack?"

"Oh, that part's easy." Charlie pulled over a plain pad of paper. "I can delineate the structural flows of moneys throughout the entire organization, with emphasis on the four loci where the main pipelines are, all leading to the off-shore account or accounts. I haven't determined for certain whether there's more than three off-shore accounts."

"And I can show for certain that illegal activities are involved," Don mused. "All the raids that we've done are against criminal operations. That's a given. If we can get inside, maybe we can trace the pathways, stop 'em before the money leaves the country. You sure that you can identify the sites?"

"Does the earth wobble? Yeah, I can identify them. Simple replacement codes."

"Right." Technique didn't matter to Don; results did. "You do that, buddy. Once I have the places, I can get warrants. Once we have those, we can shut down those pipelines. That make a difference in Blackburn's operations?"

Charlie shrugged. "Don, like I said: I just crunch the numbers. I don't tell 'em where to go. It ought to make a difference, but if this Blackburn guy has some other things going on that we don't know about…" He let his voice trail off.

"Gotta start somewhere. You just get me the names of those four places, buddy." Don turned to go.

"Oh, I already gave you one." Charlie pounced on the subject. "I can have the others for you in less than an hour. Like I said: simple substitution codes."

"You gave me one? Which one? The Fusco Street thing? That one of them?"

"Nope. The Barker Street extortion ring."

Don turned back around. "Charlie, you never said anything about Barker Street."

"Yes, I did." It was Charlie's turn to be confused. "Didn't I? It was a really easy code. I deciphered it just by looking at it. That double E is a dead giveaway when it comes to substitutions. It had to be either an E, an O, maybe an R, occasionally an L or a P—"

"Charlie, who did you talk to about this? Larry? Amita?"

Charlie tried to remember. "No. It was somebody from the FBI."

"Think, Charlie. Who did you talk to?" It hadn't been that long. Don had sent Charlie home sometime shortly after five, and it was still only hovering around nine. Who could his brother have spoken with? Don got an icy hot feeling running through his veins. "Somebody in the Bureau?"

"Yeah. Wait a minute. It was Agent Morton. Don, you told me to tell you if she came around. Yes, she came around."

"She came _here_, asking for help?"

"She…" Charlie tried to think. "Wait a minute. I think she drove me here. To CalSci."

"She drove you? Why was _she_ driving you anywhere? Charlie, did she ask you anything about the case?" Morton was _supposed _to have been scared off from approaching Charlie.

It didn't have numbers, so it hadn't impacted Charlie's consciousness. Don tried not to grind his teeth. Or wring Charlie's neck. Charlie struggled to remember. "I think she drove me here, and followed me in. She was asking questions about what I do, I think. And I'm pretty sure I mentioned the Barker Street thing to her. She's an agent, after all. And she knew about your case."

"And then?"

"Then she left. Yeah, I remember that I started to say something, and she wasn't there any more. She must have left. I didn't see her go. I think."

Now Don did clench his teeth. "Charlie, I thought I told you not to talk to her."

"No, Don. You told me to tell you _if_ we talked. Which I just did," Charlie pointed out reasonably. "We talked. Agent Morton and I talked. About the Barker Street extortion ring." He eyed his brother concernedly. "Don, what's going on between you and Agent Morton? I'm a consultant for the FBI, not just you. I can't just refuse to work with her, simply because we're brothers."

"It's complicated, Charlie."

"I can see that."

Don glared. "Just drop it, okay? Just don't talk to her—no, let me revise that. Keep telling me when you do work with her. Tell me what you tell her. And keep it professional," he added.

"Don—?"

"Keep it professional," Don repeated, trying desperately to figure out how to tell Charlie to stay away from Morton and have it come out more like a top FBI investigator and less like a selfish employee with a genius brother that he didn't want to share. "Keep it professional."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Obviously the driver didn't realize that the vehicle was being followed. There were two occupants in the trailing car, their vehicle carefully selected to blend in with traffic as neither new nor old, not flashy yet not so beaten up that it stood out as something headed for the trash heap. No, the target vehicle had been targeted so that Black Bart Blackburn could learn more about whoever was looking to take him down.

The situation clearly wasn't random. Three operations in two days? That suggested that Black Bart had an enemy who intended to remove Black Bart Blackburn's influence from L.A. on a rather permanent basis. The question posed for Blackburn was: official or criminal? Both were possible, yet each one would require a different approach in order to delete the threat. Blackburn had become successful through a systematic review of those threats and opportunities in a particular area of illegal business, and thrived through the anticipation of those threats as well as removing them in a timely fashion.

The path that the suspect vehicle took suggested official. The driver had initially visited a professor at CalSci first. Greatly daring, one of the personnel following the driver had even walked in afterward and identified the professor as a Dr. Charles Eppes, mathematician. Blackburn's employee had no idea of the significance of that meeting, but Blackburn did. Finances turned on math. Any reasonably competent mathematician or accountant could pose a threat, and this mathematician's reputation suggested that he was more than reasonably competent. Blackburn directed the pursuing vehicle to continue to follow the adversary.

The suspect vehicle then proceeded to LAPD. Blackburn had no difficulty imaging what the driver was doing there: more research as to Blackburn's activities. That, at least, eliminated any criminal rival. Clearly this was official.

Next step: identify the individual players.

Following that: remove the potential threats in whatever fashion seemed most expedient.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_Crap_.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

Cursing wasn't helping, and saying it out loud would only make it worse. Don sipped at his coffee, welcoming the scalding that it gave his tongue as only appropriate given the circumstances. Misjudged the damn woman again! Don had known that she'd be after the Barker Street operation in a heartbeat as soon as he'd heard it from Charlie, but Don had thought that her heart would beat a hell of a lot better at nine o'clock in the morning. That Don would have time to go to Area Director D'Angelo and say, "please, sir, will you tell Special Agent Morton go sit in the corner while the big boys play?"

It was obvious that it hadn't played out that way. Morton had somehow been able to acquire more details on the Barker Street extortion ring—Don suspected that she'd made a few of her own friends already in LAPD—and had put together her own raid, tying it in to her porn studio case in order to get the okay from above to carry it out. She must have been up all night in order to get enough details to pull it off as she did. The raid had occurred at six AM. A hefty chunk of the field agents had been dragged in early to carry it out.

The field agents too were not happy campers. Three cups of espresso each had done nothing to improve their collective temper.

And Don and his team had not been invited, which was why Don hadn't known of it until after it was all over. Had David or Colby or Megan been notified, Don would have been told and could have stopped the raid in its tracks and a bunch of very sleepy and now hyper-caffeinated agents would not be sleepy or caffeinated or cranky. And Blackburn would not be thinking that the FBI now had him in their sights, and thinking about how to cut his losses, and how to protect the rest of his organization against further incursions. How to escape.

All because a certain FBI agent had a bee up her bonnet.

_Crap_.

Nothing to be done for it now. Even going to Area Director D'Angelo wouldn't help, not after it looked like Morton had pulled off a spectacular raid. The computers and the hard copy was still being carried in by the crateful, and almost a dozen suspects were in handcuffs, waiting for their turn at interrogation. Only Don knew that this was only the tip of the iceberg, that there was a hell of a lot more of Black Bart's gang out there. Morton would find that out in a week or so, after sifting through the evidence. After it was too late.

_Crap_.

The others gathered around him, milling, unwilling to sit down. Not when there was work to be done. Not one had offered a plan on how to proceed, but that didn't mean that any of them was willing to stop.

"There has to be a way around this, Don," Colby was saying. "I mean, look at this! Yeah, she took down one chunk of Black Bart, and yeah, it was a big chunk. But it was only one group. There's like, how many more out there?"

"According to Charlie, at least three more major sub-organizations," Don replied gloomily. "He thinks there may be more."

"We could plan to raid those places," David offered, the despair evident.

"Yeah, but would it do any good?" Don asked. "The stuff we're feeding Charlie says that we could plan a dozen raids, and it still would only dent the surface." He tossed the pencil onto the desk, watching it roll over and over, avoiding by mere inches a fall to the floor. "There's got to be a way to take this scum out of the picture!"

"That's no way to talk about a fellow field agent, even if she is trying to steal Charlie away from you," Megan told him, the sarcasm heavy. "Let's concentrate on Black Bart."

Don froze. "That's it!"

"Don?"

A slow, feral grin slid across the senior agent's face. "You just said it, Megan. We need to concentrate on Black Bart. When I was talking to Charlie last night, we were talking about how many lines that Blackburn was into, and that there was no way to physically hit on all of them all at once. There are three more places, and Charlie thinks that there might be even more that we haven't found. There just isn't any way to raid all three of those places at once, let alone the ones we're still finding out about."

"So?" David knew when to put in a straight line for his boss. "How do we concentrate on Blackburn? You have a plan."

"I have a plan," Don confirmed. One corner of his mouth rose. It couldn't help it.

"Care to share?"

"I would love to share," Don announced. He made a show of looking around the room. "No spies?"

"No spies," Colby said with just a hint of exasperation. "No bugs, no media cameras. What's the plan?"

"We've been trying to get at Blackburn's operations," Don explained. "We've taken out extortion rings, we've gotten Morton to hit on porn studios. Some of the other agents—I won't bother saying who—have been hassling his drug dealers. All peanut stuff. We're not getting anywhere."

"We're not getting anywhere," David agreed. "So how _do_ we get somewhere?"

Don settled back into his chair. This was going to take a while. "You remember Al Capone?"

"Right. The Thirties, Prohibition, headed up a Chicago gang."

"That's the one. How did the FBI finally take him out?"

"Easy. Tax evasion," Megan said. "Don, that's classic. But it won't work here. Didn't you tell us that Charlie said there wasn't enough evidence to go for evasion?"

"I did, and there isn't. In any case, it won't be tax evasion that we'll get him for."

"But—?"

"The principle is the same: money. That's what they all run on." Don folded his arms behind his head. "We'll trace the money flow."

"Don?"

"We're not looking for the flow to indict Blackburn," Don explained, "although it will certainly help to make the case later on. What we need it for now is to simply identify who Blackburn is. Once we can put a face to the name, we can go after him. We can dig into his background, smoke him out as an individual."

"Don, that's brilliant," Megan said, pleased. "Blackburn's technique has always been to remove himself from the scene, stay away from the day to day operations. That's how he's managed to stay on top. He lets the little people take the fall for him, while he goes on to invest and enlarge."

"So if we identify him, we'll have him." David too was buying into the plan. "We can do this?"

"We can do this," Don affirmed. "What we need are the files and computers from the Barker Street place, as well as the other three that Charlie is coming up with. We get some warrants, get the paper trails from our targets, get our people to cross-reference the information, and we figure out who is the common denominator."

"Won't take much manpower," Colby agreed. "We won't need platoons of guys with guns yelling 'freeze! FBI!' at the top of our lungs and getting shot at. All we need to do is crate up papers and computers, and then the fun begins." He grinned. "Someone _else's_ fun. Me, I wouldn't know a debit from a credit if it came up and bit me on the—"

"We get the picture, Colby," Megan told him hurriedly.


	5. Tug of War 5

"Smith? John Smith? Really?" Don allowed the doubt to show.

"Yes, really," the supposed owner of Lechuga Imports told him coolly. "That's what it says on my birth certificate and my passport."

"Oh, I have no doubt of that," Don replied with the same icy demeanor. "You just sit right there. We'll be done in a couple of hours."

"After which you'll be done for the rest of your career," Smith said between tightly clenched teeth. "My lawyers will see to that."

Don waved the paper in the air. "This warrant says otherwise, Mr. Smith. This warrant demonstrates that we have probably cause to suspect your imports of containing items not specified on the lading bills, items that are considered contraband in this country and subject to seizure and forfeiture." Don was really glad that he'd practiced saying that particular phrase. It rolled off his tongue like glad-handing by a politician. "Plus, we have a number of very specific questions as to who your backers are, Mr. Smith. It seems that not all of your funds are going where they ought to be going."

That got to Smith. His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

Don pretended to inspect the warrant and then some of Smith's paperwork. _Gotcha!_ "Hmm. Looking for Blackburn. No, I guess that name isn't here. But neither is anything going toward sales tax. What an amazing oversight, Mr. Smith."

Smith tried not to flinch at the sound of Blackburn's name, but Don caught it just the same. Smith hurried on. "My goods are not subject to sales tax."

"Really? All you deal in is imported foodstuffs?" Don stopped one of the agents plodding by from the interior of the warehouse, carrying a large box. "Hold up a moment, Rick. Let's see what's in this box marked 'bananas'."

"Pretty damn heavy for bananas," the agent griped.

"Well, gosh," Don said, lifting out a case of CD's. "This doesn't look like bananas. In fact, these look like CD's. Not only that, this looks like a really bad picture of Britney Spears on the cover. Gee, do you think that these might be bootlegged copies, for which Ms. Spears is getting no royalties and her fans are getting really crappy copies of her music?"

"I never saw those in my life," Smith told him, teeth clenched. "I don't know what they're doing in my warehouse. You must have planted them there."

"Try again, Mr. Smith," Don invited. "Your bill of lading says otherwise." This was going nicely. There were over three hundred crates in the warehouse that Don could see from here, and a whole heck of a lot more that he couldn't see. This should put a substantial dent in the Blackburn coop. Don used a shark's grin that he'd also practiced for the occasion. "Of course, you give me details, I might be able to speak to the D.A. She's watching this whole episode very closely. I must say, she's looking forward to prosecuting this case. She rarely catches anything so easy to prove."

"Slap on the wrist. I won't even get any jail time."

_You're probably right, but I won't admit to it_. "I do hope you're not counting on that," Don returned pleasantly. "And I'd hate to be in your shoes when Blackburn hears about this."

"Who is this Blackburn you keep mentioning? I've never heard of this person."

_Really?_ _Then why did you cringe when I said his name?_ "I'm sure it was a mistake on my part. I'll make certain that the D.A. knows that you are _entirely_ to blame for all the 'clerical errors' that have occurred in the course of your business transactions." Don waved his men through. "Confiscate all the records, and all the goods that don't match their bills of lading," he instructed his people once again. It wasn't for his team that he said that; it was for Mr. Smith's benefit.

He watched as more boxes of papers were hauled out to the trucks that he'd arranged for. Lots and lots of data to be sifted through. Charlie would have a field day.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Report."

"The FBI came snooping around. They wanted records about the suspected Barker Street extortion ring." The patrolman really wished that he wasn't making this phone call. The money was nice, but not all that nice.

"What did they get?"

"A few names. One or two of the businesses that got shut down, the ones who wouldn't pay up and got torched. A couple of witnesses who wouldn't testify."

"Was anything mentioned about an import/export business?"

"Not that I heard." Nervously. Maybe that wasn't the right answer.

There was a few moments of silence, while the voice on the other end considered options. Then—"who was the FBI agent?"

"Woman by the name of Morton. Didn't get her first name. I almost got caught listening in on the conversation."

"Anyone else?"

"Nope. No one that I saw or heard of."

"And who did Agent Morton speak to in the LAPD?"

"She talked to someone in Crimes Against Property, Terranova I think it was."

"Very good. There will be something extra in your bank account within the next few business days."

"I—" the patrolman fell silent.

"I believe that you do not wish to know anything further. Do you?"

"Uh, no. No, I don't."

"Very good. Good day, officer." The line went dead.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Victory!" Megan dumped an armload of papers onto Don's desk.

Don eyed it nervously. He wasn't clear as to what it was but he was of the opinion that it represented work. Work to be done now, and fast. "And this is—?"

"The Barker Street stuff," Megan grinned. "Do you know who I had to bribe in order to squeeze this out of Morton's grasp?"

Don grabbed at it. "I don't want to know. That—" he swallowed away the word that he really wanted to use, and substituted another more innocuous phrase, "—woman has refused to give me access to these files for the last twenty-four hours. And Charlie needs this stuff to update his model thing."

"Grab papers and start photocopying," Megan advised him. "I need to get this back before she misses it. All we need is the information on it, right? Not the actual papers themselves?"

"Nope. That's what Charlie says." Don echoed Megan's grin. "Sure hope my brother doesn't have any plans for tonight."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Don led the way up the stairs, his arms laden with a heavy box of documents. The others were following him, similarly bogged down with more boxes. The concrete steps echoed hollowly in the cavernous stairwell of the Math Building at CalSci. It sounded like a small herd of elephants traipsing along a very small path with saplings getting crumpled underneath massive footsteps.

"You got something against elevators?"

"Yeah, Colby, I do. They get stuck. They have a particular tendency to get stuck at the worst possible time, like when I'm trying beat someone to a certain math whiz I know and am supposed to love despite a healthy helping of sibling rivalry. And weren't you the one complaining that you were spending too much time behind a desk and not enough pounding the pavement? You want to retract that statement? Wouldn't be hard to find you a new assignment."

"Stairs are just fine, Don," Colby responded hastily. "Especially old cement ones in old buildings in genius-level universities."

Don shifted the weight in his arms. The papers inside the box tilted to one side, almost throwing him off balance. "Anyone else have a comment to make?"

"Sure," David chirped. "I volunteer to go back down to the van and get the last box."

"Suck up."

"Hey, I just don't want to get caught in the fall out when Charlie sees how much data you've brought him. Coming up with equations is the fun part. Inputting the data—_this_ much data—will take forever."

"That's why they invented graduate students," Don muttered, echoing a statement that he'd heard in his brother's presence, hoping it was true. He pushed open the door to the hallway.

He heard voices. Voices coming down the corridor from Charlie's office. A male voice, and a female voice. He recognized the male voice. It was Charlie's.

The other one could be Amita's. It was a female voice. Don really wanted it to be Amita's voice, even as common sense told him that the accent had those particular flat A's and the nasal tone that Amita never had. Maybe it was just the way that the sound came through the door. Maybe it was being muffled by the omnipresent white board. Maybe—

_Crap_.

"Special Agent Morton." The standard greeting contained no warmth whatsoever.

"Special Agent Eppes." Morton won. Her reply held even more ice than Don's salutation, flat A's and all.

But Don had an ace in the hole. The math consultant was his, would be his for the rest of his days, and there was no way that Morton could trump the ties of brotherhood. The next phrase from Don held a good deal more pleasantness. "Hey, Charlie. How are things going tonight?"

"Good," Charlie drawled nervously. A farm boy caught between two hungry grizzlies with a basket of blueberries in his hands would show less fear. "Did your operations go well?"

"Very well, thanks," Don said in a carefully genial tone, blessing the foresight that led him to cover over the Barker Street documents with those from the Lechuga import business. One glimpse of the Barker Street stuff, and Morton would be screaming at the top of her more than ample lungs. He dumped the crate on top of Charlie's desk, blocking access to the papers that Morton had brought. _She_ had only brought a couple of manila file folders, Don saw. Not nearly as much data to work with and, as Don well knew, Charlie liked _lots_ of data. Said that it improved the accuracy of his projections. It meant more work to input the data, but Charlie was always a stickler for accuracy over speed. "I brought you some more data."

"Thanks," Charlie said, only half-meaning it, eyeing the four boxes that had arrived with Don and his team with trepidation. _I could use some help entering this into the computer(s)_, was the unvoiced comment.

Don applied a smile to his face. "Can we help you with the data, Charlie?" he asked, with the air of someone asking for a treat. Behind him, he could feel David and Colby and Megan forcibly wrenching their mouths into the same hopeful expression of a child hoping for candy. _I will give you all raises, no matter what the budget looks like, guys!_

Point to Don. "That would be great, Don," Charlie said, in a hurry to lock in the offer before someone realized what it was that they had agreed to. "All this data, I could really use some extra hands. Otherwise, it will take until next week to get it correlated."

"Can't have that, Charlie," Don told him. "Gotta catch this guy before he figures out what's going on and hustles his ass out of the country." _Like he might do because you tipped him off, Morton!_

"But, Charlie," Jelly Morton cooed, "you promised to help me with _my_ case. Can't you do that first? It's not very much…" She let her voice trail off. _Damn! Did she just bat her eyes at Charlie? Megan! Do something! Do something female-like before Morton—_

_You've already got me typing on a keyboard, Eppes. Don't push your luck_.

"Well, actually, that makes it more difficult to come up with a correct answer," Charlie said uncomfortably to Morton. "More data means more accuracy."

Bless the man! Time to consolidate Don's lead. "Tell you what, Charlie. Let's all get started on my stuff, and I'll call out for pizza."

"That won't be necessary, Agent Eppes." Morton's claws came out. "I brought sandwiches."

_Trim the claws_. "Sandwiches?" Don snorted. "I think I can do better than that. David, can I get you to swing by Le Bistro? The chef over there owes me one. Have him put together some plates and bring them back here. Put it on my card." Which was going to be seriously overdrawn if this kept up much longer.

The final straw was Charlie himself, who was becoming increasingly uncomfortable at the tug of war going on with himself the prize. "Look, I'll do what I can for everyone," he temporized. "Agent Morton, leave your data. I'll work on it along with Don's, and get back to you as soon as it's ready." _And since I think it may probably be the same data…_

"I can get a platter from Chez Louis—"

"How about I trim the hedges in the back yard when I'm finished with the shed?"

"Tickets to the Los Angeles Philharmonic—"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Out!" Don fumed. "He threw me out! My own brother threw me out of his office!"

"And we're supposed to be sympathetic?" Megan groused. "_We_ three get to go back and type. With pizza in hand, I might add. _You_ get to go home and wait in comfort until he's finished putting the data together."

Don glowered, watching Morton stride across the parking lot to her Miata. "It's her fault. She started it."

"Do you have _any_ concept of how childish that sounds?"

_Megan must be really angry_. Don forced himself to settle down, to realize the truth of what the profiler was saying. "Yeah, that was going overboard. Sorry, guys. Didn't mean to ruin your night. It's just that Morton…"

Colby came to his rescue. "Yeah, you got that right, Don. Morton brings out the worst in all of us."

"I didn't really have anything else to do tonight," David said magnanimously. "And, yes, like the rest of us, I would really like to nail Blackburn, preferably before Morton. A little healthy competition doesn't hurt."

How healthy was the scene in Charlie's office? But nobody voiced the thought aloud.

"You think she's gonna come back and try again tonight?" Colby asked. "Try and hit on Charlie, I mean." Morton slammed her car door, the sound echoing into the night.

"Not a chance." Don knew the answer to that one. "If she does, Charlie will make her wait longer. You can only push him certain ways, and that's not one of them." Even saying that made him feel better. Sure, he'd lost it, just a bit, in front of Charlie, but this was important stuff. And, dammit! Charlie was _his_ brother. Morton couldn't just go waltzing in and kidnap his brother the math genius right from under his nose—

Gunfire always had a peculiar ring to it. Some people thought that firecrackers sounded like gunfire, but after the first time of being shot at, Don never ever again had a problem distinguishing between the two.

He had no problem now.

Automatic FBI reflexes kicked in. He and his team hit the ground, scanning and finding the red Corvette with an automatic sticking out of the passenger's window, spitting fire at Morton's little blue Miata.

They moved like Van Cliburn's fingers on a piano keyboard, weaving notes into a concert of deadly defense. Don and Colby, weapons out and firing back, advanced. David went for his radio, calling for back up. Megan aimed for the license: "California plates, one alpha three niner niner—can't see the rest!"

"Two people in the Corvette," Don shouted at her, firing. The back window splintered into crystal dust. "Both male, maybe Caucasian, early twenties, brown hair." He fired again, shattering the Corvette's front windshield this time. The Corvette swerved, the passenger firing another round at Morton in her stationary Miata. Morton prudently was on the floor of the vehicle. Not a hair could be seen over the dash.

"They're coming around!" Colby yelled. "Take cover!" He dove over the nearest car, sliding across the hood and rolling behind it just ahead of the spray of automatic fire that the Corvette aimed in their direction. Don followed him, David and Megan already huddled behind Don's Suburban. Bullets peppered the pristine paint.

The Corvette streaked off with all the power of its over-muscled engine, soot lingering in the silence left behind.

Don cautiously rose, smoking gun still in hand. "Everyone okay? Roll call."

"I'm fine." Megan.

"Good, here." David.

"Never touched me." Colby's voice still shook with adrenaline.

"Bystanders?" Don scanned the area. There was no one around save for themselves, although in the distance Don could hear the wail of a siren. _Little late, guys!_ Anyone with any intelligence whatsoever had bolted at the first shot. CalSci students, whether graduate or undergraduate, were not known for stupidity. _Although common sense was occasionally a bit lacking…_ "How about Morton?"

A handgun, peeping out over the dashboard, answered that question: their fellow agent was alive.

"Morton?" Don called. "You okay?"

Her head inched up, following the pistol, her hair tumbled out of its confining pins. She looked around, verifying for herself that the attackers had fled. The car door opened, and she crawled out. "What the hell was that?"

"I take it that means that you're not hurt." Don extended his hand to help her up, pulled it back when Morton ignored him. "Hey, that's blood. Where's it coming from?"

Morton felt her face, brought her hand down with a trace of blood. "Uh.."

Megan dabbed at the cut over Morton's brow. "Just a scratch," she diagnosed. "Maybe from the windshield? Better get it looked at; it might need stitches."

"Yeah." Morton looked around. On a lesser person, one who was not an experienced FBI agent, the expression might have been described as confused. "What the hell was that?" she asked again, fighting to regain self-control. "You get that often?"

"I take it people are too polite to shoot at you in Seattle," David offered dryly.

"We get our share," Morton shot back, stung. The comment did much to restore her to herself. "And we get a hell of a lot more high-end hackers. It's computer country, you know."

"Of course." Don kept any trace of emotion out. He was the senior agent on the scene; it was up to him to maintain control. And it wouldn't hurt to make up for the earlier scene in Charlie's office..."Are you working on anything sensitive that might generate this level of interest? Except the child porn stuff, I mean."

Morton responded better to that note. "Not a chance. The porn stuff has been taking up all of my time."

_And your free time_, Don guessed. "Then this probably had something to do with it." _Let's not mention Black Bart_. _Morton already knows that she's only a small part of a bigger operation, and doesn't like it. Reminding her of that would not be a smooth move_. "Listen, Morton, I'll handle the reports. Megan, you take her over to the ER, get her stitched up." Don tried for the comrade-in-arms approach, gave her a _one of the guys_ grin. "You're gonna have bruises like David did after you and yours busted in on us at the Brick Wall studio."

Morton's emerging return smile froze. "I'll handle my own reports, Eppes. You don't need to wait around. None of you do." She stalked off, pushing a tissue at the cut on her forehead to persuade it to stop bleeding.

_So much for extending the olive branch_. Don shrugged. He'd tried. He glanced up at the window to his brother's office. The light was still on, and a shadow passed by. The man hadn't even noticed, had been so engrossed in the problem before him that he hadn't realized that Don and the others were being shot at out in the parking lot. _Such is the lot of the genius_. Yet another problem to deal with. He sighed. "You three head back up and help Charlie with putting the data into where ever he wants it," he directed the others. "I'll handle the reports down here, and then make the pizza run. Everybody good for pepperoni?"


	6. Tug of War 6

Charlie took a deep breath, and clutched his laptop to his chest. _This is silly_, he thought. _On the other hand… _He pulled out his cell and hit the speed dial. "Don? It's me. I'm walking into the FBI building right now." Pause. "No, I do not see Special Agent Morton. No, I will not accompany her to her office. If she asks me to, I will politely tell her that I have a previously scheduled appointment with another FBI agent whose name I have conveniently forgotten." Pause. "You're right, Don. That does sound ridiculous. Have I made my point?" Pause. "I'll see you in a moment."

It was more than a moment; it was closer to five nail-chomping minutes before Charlie arrived at Don's door. Don was almost ready to take the stairs down to the entrance to see what was taking the man so long when Charlie poked his head in.

"What kept you?"

"Hi to you too, Don." Charlie set his laptop down on the desk and flipped it open. He nodded a greeting to the others in the room as well. "I took the local elevator. It stopped at every floor."

"Did Agent Morton—"

"Actually, she did, Don." Charlie met his brother's worried stare. "She got on from the third floor, and off at the fifth."

"And—?"

"Yes, I told her that I'd finished the analysis. I'm not about to lie to her, Don." Charlie met his brother's eyes, not certain what he'd find there.

"I'm not asking you to," Don muttered. "And—?"

"I'll see her after I finish here," Charlie told him. "Unless there's a reason why I shouldn't?"

Don wished he could come up with one. He really wished he could. But nothing was popping up, nothing except an attack of the green-eyed monster. And that was not something that he could indulge, certainly not with Charlie and not in front of Megan, David, or Colby.

"Right." Having won the argument, Charlie didn't gloat. Instead, he pasted an array of numbers onto the board with his laptop, the numbers dancing around in a way that could easily create headaches in the less mathematically inclined.

However, considering that his brother was here and not in Morton's office, Don refused to complain. "What are we looking at?"

"We are looking," Charlie said, "at a partial flow chart of your suspect's operations."

"This is good," David pronounced it. "Now, for those of us who don't speak math?"

Charlie grinned. "It's easier than you think, David. Watch this." He did something to his laptop. The spreadsheet dissolved into a stylistic map with a little black spider in the center. The spider had an hourglass emblazoned on it. "Like it? I found the graphic on some of my archives. I thought it seemed really apropos for the situation."

"Black widow spider," Colby agreed. "Black Bart Blackburn."

"Right. We all agree that Blackburn will eat its prey. How does that apply here?" Having appropriated Charlie for himself, Don was eager to get to the good part. Just in case Morton was listening in somehow and intending to dash off with his intel to make him look bad.

_Don, listen to yourself! This is getting infantile!_

He smothered an unhappy smile at the thought, and settled himself down. Don Eppes would prevail, and he'd do it with good old-fashioned investigative work. He paid attention to his consultant.

Charlie tweaked the laptop, and the spider wiggled its pincers. He grinned. "Like the spider in its web, your suspect has spread out his web throughout a multitude of avenues, all inter-dependent on each other yet strong enough so that if one or more strands is damaged the structure still stands. Watch what happens when the big strong human FBI guy comes along and brushes past one of the strands." Another tap, and a cartoon figure with a briefcase walked past the edge of the web, erasing one strand as he went. Most of the web stayed intact.

"I wanted something that would shoot off the edge of the web, but I couldn't find it in time," Charlie complained. "That would have been more like you guys."

"We don't use our guns all that often, Charlie," Don reminded him

A raised pair of eyebrows was the disbelieving response. Charlie moved on. "So we brush away another strand, and another, until we've totally demolished the web. It works, but it's inefficient if you have a smart spider." He rebuilt the web for the next demo.

"Which we do," was Megan's contribution. "We've got a very smart spider."

"Right. The smart spider," Charlie gave the keyboard a whole string of instructions, "isn't just waiting around for his web to get zapped out of existence. He's always refurbishing, building more. So as fast as we erase strands," and the man with the briefcase went to work again, "the spider rebuilds them. But, being a smart spider, he rebuilds on the side where our FBI agent doesn't go." The spider put up strands on the opposite side from the cartoon agent, giving the web a lop-sided but still deadly look.

"And where are we going with this?" Colby asked.

Charlie pointed to the side where the spider was dancing. "Isn't it obvious? To the left."

Groans.

"C'mon, Charlie," Don urged. "I get it; the graphics are cute. But I've got a case to solve." _Before Morton gets there first_. But Don bit his tongue to prevent that little tidbit from emerging.

Charlie took pity on him. "Okay, we have the spider building in a safe area, where our FBI guy isn't. So what if we bring in another FBI guy?" A second cartoon figure emerged, to begin sweeping at the left area where the spider was expanding. The spider, as smart as the computer told it to be, began to cause the web to bulge at the top. "And another." The spider was forced to head downward. "And a fourth will contain the whole thing."

"Keep going." There were times when Charlie could take forever to get to the point.

"Now let's put in what we know about your suspect." Charlie's expression darkened with the subject matter. "We know that Blackburn is the spider. That's a given. Let's assume that this web strand is the Fusco Street operation, this one here the Brick Wall studios, and so forth."

"And—?" Don forced himself not to tap his foot.

"Now we apply what we know to be true about the flows of money, data that was gathered during your raids."

Several of the strands thickened, arrows pointing the way that the wealth was flowing. Some flowed outward, but more of it flowed in toward the spider.

"We have this as factual, based on financial statements that were seized," Charlie lectured. "We're going on the assumption that this information is accurate, or reasonably so. There's always the possibility that these various parts of Blackburn's web are keeping a second set of books, but so far it all seems to go together."

He shifted his weight, aimed toward the other edge of the web. "Now we add in suppositional data extracted from analysis, information that I believe to be true based on typical monetary flow patterns but not, in fact, supported by hard data as of yet. In my field, this is where the 'guesswork' comes in. It has a fairly high degree of probability, but is still subject to error." Charlie hit the key. Rainbow color flowed through the web strands, further strengthening some and dwindling others down to a mere thread.

"Observe what has happened here." Charlie was in full professor mode. "We have defined this locus as the Brick Wall Studios, and you can see that this web strand is now almost extinct; destroyed. That, people, occurred when Agent Morton raided it. Our spider Blackburn has abandoned this piece of the web. Oh, he'll put in a small amount of resources, just to see if anything can be salvaged, but doesn't expect much. Here is the Fusco Street operation, and Lechuga Imports: both demolished."

"Which means that we're interested in those really thick ropes at the center of the web." Don cut to the chase.

If Charlie was annoyed at having his lecture shortened, he didn't show it. Instead he beamed, as if his favorite student had come through once again. "Exactly. You'll note that there are three of them, all leading directly into the center of the spider's web. Cut one of them, you'll take out approximately a third of Blackburn's operations. Two, you'll damage him to where he becomes vulnerable to outside attack by other predators. Destroy all three, and you'll kill the spider." A huge shoe came out of the 'sky' on the screen and squashed the arachnid. Ichor seeped out onto the picture. Charlie grinned.

"Cute," Don grunted. "How do I get to these three major arteries? Do they have names?"

Now Charlie wilted. "Not yet," he admitted. "I'm close, but not there yet. The data hasn't yet yielded enough information to make a reasonably accurate prediction. I'm one layer away."

"One layer?" Don pounced. "That says that another raid or two, and you'll have it."

"I think so," Charlie said. "Don, I'm not certain. It all depends on what information can get pulled out of these next stacks of data."

"We're moving forward." That was all that mattered. "Where do we hit? You said there are three places?"

"Right." Show time was over. Charlie closed down his masterpiece and pulled up some plain and ordinary looking numbers. "We have three clearing houses that I've identified as major conduits for resources: Sweet Things Candy Shop, JB Imports, and Up the Creek."

"'Up the Creek'? What's that?" Megan asked.

Charlie shrugged. "Beats me. That's what the codes came out with. Can you guys find those places?"

"Not too hard so far." David's own fingers danced across his computer. "Sweet Things Candy Shop, Fourth and Main. Claims to be a candy store."

"I'll bet." Colby was skeptical, as were they all.

"JB Imports, at the dock. Import export business, as if we couldn't guess. Anybody want to suggest what they're actually importing?"

"Got a better idea," Megan said. "How about we go and find out? And what about that Up the Creek thing? Almost sounds like a clothing store."

"Not quite." David peered at the results on his computer. A slow grin crossed his face. "Would you believe another 'movie' studio?"

"More porn?" Don made a face. Then a thought struck him. "Charlie?"

"Yes, Don?"

"Morton's analysis, that you did for her. How much of this—"Don gestured to the now blank screen—"will she hear from you?"

"Don?"

"Is she going to get the full spider treatment?"

Charlie winced. "Don, I have the results from her data. They lead to that Up the Creek thing as well. Her data doesn't encompass all that yours does—"

"So she's going to hear about Up the Creek?"

"Well, as a matter of fact—"

"Good." Don rocked back on his heels. "Give it to her. With my blessing, buddy."

"Huh?"

"Make your report to her, Dr. Eppes," Don repeated.

"You're not going to object?" Charlie stumbled over the verb 'object'. He had almost used another word to describe Don's anticipated reaction, a word with significantly less pleasant connotations. This delight on his brother's part made him nervous.

"Object? Me?" Don smiled. The expression bore little resemblance to good humor. "Charlie, Special Agent Morton has asked you to consult for her on her case. Telling you to take a step back, merely because I am your brother, would be highly unprofessional of me. Charlie, go ahead and tell her everything that your analysis of her data has provided. Tell her in detail. Encourage her to ask questions; everything that any other run of the mill consultant would do."

"But I'm not run of the mill," Charlie grumbled weakly. With his brother this keen for him to talk to Morton, there had to be something behind it.

Don kept on smiling. "I know, Charlie. And so does Morton. Just give her what she asked for, buddy. Give her _everything_ that she asks for."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

For Special Agent Jessica Morton, there were no spiders and no dancing cartoon FBI agents. There were numbers. There were spreadsheets. But no graphics, cute or otherwise.

Morton liked it that way.

"You pulled all of this out of the Barker Street stuff?"

"Well, that and the Brick Wall information that you'd given me earlier," Charlie said honestly. "The money trail leads to this Up the Creek studio." He watched her closely. "Another porn studio?"

"Probably," Morton said, thinking. "Charlie, does Don know about this Up the Creek operation?"

"Yes," Charlie replied honestly.

Morton pursed her lips. Charlie could all but see the thoughts in her head_: have to move fast on this one, before Eppes and his team gets there._

"And he's planning to take it down?"

"I think so." Also accurate. Don was planning to take out all three of the money chains that Charlie had deciphered. Don had said so, in front of Charlie. And Don had told Charlie not to hold anything back. Charlie didn't understand Don's reasoning at the moment, but he trusted his brother. His brother knew what was going on in office politics here in the FBI.

"When?"

"He didn't say," Charlie told her truthfully, "but I got the impression that it would be soon."

"I'll bet," Morton muttered under her breath. Then she raised her voice. "Darryl! Hunt down Up the Creek. I want to raid that place within the hour. I'm going after the warrant right now. Have everything ready for when I get back. No, wait—meet me there with a team. I'll bring the warrant directly there." Then she turned back to Charlie and smiled, a slow sultry smile designed to make men tingle right down to their toes and then some. "I've heard that you sometimes accompany your brother, Dr. Eppes. That it helps you to formulate the equations that lead to solving a case when you see the crime scene." The smile deepened. "Care to come with _me_?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Don let himself out of Area Director's D'Angelo's office, David in his wake. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'll get right on it. I already have Agent Reeves going after the warrants for all three places, subject to your approval." He casually glanced down at his watch on his wrist. "Damn, my watch has stopped. Do you have the time, sir?"

D'Angelo automatically looked at his own watch. "One sixteen, Eppes." He set the papers down on his desk. "Better get moving if you want to catch Judge Berenstein before that afternoon nap that he swears that he never takes in his chambers."

Don grinned. "I will, sir. Thank you, sir." He closed the door behind him, leaving the area director behind.

David closed the gap between them. "That was playing dirty, Don."

"No, it wasn't," Don protested. "I followed protocol, David. I received valid data from a legitimate source—a highly respected consultant—and formulated a major case plan from that data. And then, as befits a senior agent contemplating a major case plan—"

"Befits? Who the hells uses the word 'befits' any more?"

"As befitting a senior agent contemplating a major case plan of action," and Don mock glared at David, "I took said plan to the area director for approval prior to implementation. What's wrong with that?"

"And your watch just happened to stop at that moment," David gibed, "so that Director D'Angelo would conveniently check the time."

"David, are you accusing me of lying to my boss? Telling him that my watch had stopped, when in actuality I was merely attempting to establish a legitimate timeline with unimpeachable witnesses? How could you think that?"

"Easy," David grunted. "I saw it happen." He changed the subject; actually, he caused it to veer around the next corner. "You think that Morton's going to take the bait?"

"As Charlie would say, having been infected by Larry: does the Earth wobble?"

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"A warrant, you say."

The voice never ceased to strike fear into the stenographer's heart. It was deep, masculine, without an ounce of kindness in it. The stenographer really wished that the phone call hadn't come in, or, even more, that she hadn't answered it. That she'd let voice mail get it, that she'd pretended to still be at lunch while Judge Berenstein took his afternoon nap that everybody pretended never happened on a daily basis. As far as the world knew, during the hours of one to three the learned judge would review his case notes, alone in his chambers, to ascertain the legal precedents that would lead him to just and honorable decisions.

"Yes," she stammered, looking around her, both wishing and fearing that someone would come by and hear her. If they caught her, she'd lose her job, her benefits, her career.

If she _didn't_ comply with the voice, she'd lose her life.

"Just before one," she stammered, unable to keep her voice from quaking. "Agent Morton of the FBI blew in and requested a warrant from the judge for Up the Creek. All the records and also objects pertaining to filming of minors for—"

"I can guess what the rest of it was for," the voice interrupted. "It was Agent Morton? You are certain?"

"Uh, yes. The name was on the warrant request."

A pause for reflection. Then: "Very good. You will find an additional sum in your account."

If the sum were anything like the last time, it would pay for two weeks at Disneyworld, at the nicest resorts with fine dining every night. But the stenographer found that she had no yen to visit Mickey at the moment.

Hiding under the bed would do just fine.

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"And off they go." Don watched out through the bullet-proof glass that comprised the window, noting the two vehicles that carried the team to raid the Up the Creek studios. From this high up, the agents bore a very real resemblance to ants. Don couldn't recognize any of them by sight, not even Morton. But he could guess who most of them were. "Not very many of them. Morton is reversing her reputation as a good team leader, just like she did in Seattle. Not as many people want to play with her on a raid." He looked at his watch. The numbers were ticking away, accurately delineating the time. "Two forty-five. Another fifteen minutes, and I can request the warrants for Sweet Things, JB Imports, and Up the Creek."

"They don't need many people to carry out files and computers," Megan said. "Maybe that's all she asked for. But if I were Morton, I'd be worried that someone was going to shoot back. Or run."

"We could follow them," Colby suggested. "Pick up the pieces." He frowned, reviewing what Don had said. "Why do we need a warrant for Up the Creek? Morton's got that covered."

"Does she?" Butter could have melted in Don's mouth, he was so innocent. "On what do you base that assumption, Agent Granger?"

"Charlie…" Colby came to a halt. "But didn't Charlie…?"

"Another assumption, Agent Granger." Don wagged his finger. "Did Special Agent Morton's case files or briefings mention anything about Up the Creek?"

"Well…no."

"Did Special Agent Morton notify any of her fellow senior agents of her intentions?"

"No." All three of them chimed in like a Greek chorus.

"Did Special Agent Morton clear her plan of action with Area Director D'Angelo, as per protocol? Who, knowing that I and my team are planning the same action, would have then called upon me to coordinate with Special Agent Morton so that justice would be served in a most efficient and economical manner so as not to waste taxpayer dollars?"

"No."

Colby grinned. "Laying it on a bit thick, are we, Don?"

"Me? Why would I possibly do something like that?" Don looked at his watch again. "My goodness, look at the time! I do believe that the judge will be available to hear our request for three warrants now."

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Six agents. Morton hoped that it would be enough. It ought to be, if these field agents were any good. Everyone else that Metzger had tried to pull in had mysteriously had some other task that couldn't wait. Had Eppes gotten to all of them? Not possible. And hopefully these L.A. agents were better than the idiots she'd worked with in Seattle. Those Seattle guys were all computer geeks, never wanted to get their hands dirty, only wanted to play around catching hackers all day long.

Not her. Not Jessica Jelly Morton. Computer games were all well and good and Jelly Morton appreciated a good computer geek as much as anyone, but come on! This was the FBI, for cripe's sake! There was a reason that all field agents had to qualify on the firing range. And how about the hand to hand combat techniques taught at Quantico? That wasn't just healthy body, healthy mind stuff. This was 'let's not die in the streets' stuff.

Actually, Morton had a team of seven, if she wanted to count in Eppes' little brother. He stood there, watching her team don their flak jackets, looking a little nervous. Morton frowned; he'd said that he'd gone along on some of Eppes' jaunts. Hadn't he ever wore a bullet proof vest? Didn't he know what he was getting into?

Maybe he thought that this was going to be one of those polite, 'let me have your files' sort of raid. The type of raid where a computer geek consultant could look around and miraculously divine where the data was going to lead. The type of raid where the grunts did all the work and the consultant got all the glory.

_Not gonna happen here. One Eppes hogging the limelight was enough_. Jelly Morton was going to keep this Eppes under control, keep him in the background. And to do that, she needed to keep the man where she could see him. Which meant bringing him along inside.

"Here," she said, handing Dr. Eppes a bullet proof vest. "Put yours on."

"Mine?" Charlie looked at the vest as though it had arrived in a flying saucer.

"Yeah." Morton looked at him strangely. "It's what you do at a time like this." She paused. "I thought you said that your brother took you to these things."

"Uh, yeah. But I usually wait in the car, until he tells me to come inside." Charlie pointed at her little Miata. A car with the top down. Protection? Hah.

Morton's stomach sank to her toes. _Shit._ Eppes really did bring his _idiot savant_ brother to crime scenes, then kept him out of the action, safe in that monster vehicle of his. But in this case, doing the same thing might not work out in her favor. She wouldn't even put it past Don Eppes to have primed his brother to call him once her back was turned, let Special Agent Eppes know what she was doing.

_Not this time, Eppes_. He wasn't going to get away with it. She applied an enticing smile to her lips, knowing that a mere male couldn't see past it. "I think we can do a bit better than that," she said, striving for a balance between 'female getting her way' and 'competent FBI agent'. "Put the vest on, and follow me. Stay behind me, and move when I tell you to. I think you'll get a whole new perspective on things."

"Are you sure? Don never let me do anything like that." _Translation: is it safe?_

"First time for everything," Morton assured him. _This is a porn studio, not any place likely to shoot back. I can keep him safely behind me._ "You'll see how the perps react to being busted in on. Just stay behind me and watch. Everything'll be fine."

Charlie brightened, although the nerves were still there, just under the surface. "Really? That might be what I haven't been able to see in the Directional Analysis that I've been working on for this case. That might really crack the equations wide open." He looked back at the Miata. "Should I get my laptop?"

Morton's smile froze. "Not yet," she told him. "Let it wait." _Having second thoughts about letting you behind my back. But if Eppes can break protocol by bringing you to a raid, then so can I_. She turned to Gary Metzger. "You got everyone in place?"

"We're good to go on your signal."

"On my mark." She spared a glance for Charlie. "You stay behind me." All business now. All FBI agent. No time for side issues. "Go! Go! Go!"

Two agents swung the battering ram, smashing in the door. Metzger followed them in, gun raised. "FBI! Everyone down on the floor now! Nobody goes anywhere!"

There were varying levels of activity, based on the perpetrators' roles in the various porn productions. The adult actors, dressed in dark capes, masks, and very little else, screeched and looked for something to duck behind. The floor sufficed for most of them, as per Metzger's shouted instructions. The child actors—and Morton used the term 'actor' loosely—remained exactly where they were. This was also expected, since both little girls—Morton estimated them to be all of ten—were securely bound in ropes and chains and very little else. The 'set' had been dressed in pseudo-Gothic Victorian trash, with more chains and knives and vampirish-looking paraphernalia. Morton made a promise to herself to get it all filmed for evidence for the trial that wouldn't happen because she'd caught these slimebags red-handed. They'd all plead guilty.

The camera men were made of sterner stuff: they tossed their heavy cameras at the oncoming agents and dashed toward the rear exit—only to run straight into the arms of the two agents she'd stashed there for just that purpose. _Damn good planning, Morton_, she congratulated herself.

There was one other element to be dealt with, and that was more difficult. There were four thugs types, there to watch the fun. They were also there to make sure that if something untoward were to happen—say, something like an FBI raid—that the untoward something would find it a little more difficult than usual to conduct the expected business of a raid.

In other words: Morton and team were expected. The four thugs dodged behind the Victorian sofa and the love seat (chains rattled on one. A tied up little girl shrieked helplessly on the other), took aim, and fired at the FBI agents.

_Shit!_ This was just what Morton didn't want! "Call for back up!" she yelled, hunched down behind a desk which contained toys that she didn't dare examine too closely just yet. "Don't let them get to the files or the computers!" Because if that happened, then this whole exercise would end up being pointless. They'd catch a couple of small time idiots, and the money-baggers behind this scheme would go on about their merry way. "Metzger, swing around to the left!"

She aimed, and winged one of the thugs. He howled and went down, adding to the cacophony. But he still had his gun in his good hand, and he was still using it.

"Watch the kid!" Metzger yelled as the ten year old rolled off of the sofa onto the floor, bindings and all, trying to reach safety. The thugs were still behind the sofa; one of them reached around to snag the kid.

The girl wasn't having any of it. She was tied hand and foot but she was shrieking. In between screeches she used that mouth to chomp down on the hand reaching for her. With a curse, the thug jerked back, nursing a wounded thumb.

But the girl couldn't move anywhere; her ropes prevented it. And her presence prevented the FBI agents from simply blasting a hole in the sofa to get at the thugs.

Morton cursed under her breath. Of all the things to happen! There weren't supposed to be any idiots with guns except for her people! The studio 'employees' were supposed to give up without a fight, go meekly off to jail, and Morton and her crew could confiscate the files and the computers so that her newly acquired math consultant could—_shit!_ Charlie Eppes was still behind her! It was almost as if they knew that she was coming…

No. It couldn't have been Eppes. Sure, the senior agent had a grudge against her, but he wouldn't send his own brother into a firefight, would he? That was giving paranoia too free a hand to play with her thoughts.

No. One look at the math genius assured her of Eppes' innocence. Charlie was doing exactly what he thought he should be doing: taking notes. Probably going to calculate something into those equations of his, oblivious to the fact that one of those bullets flying past them could hit him.

No, Charlie thought it was okay. That Morton was in control of the situation. He was scared, that was a given, but he was putting his faith in Special Agent Jessica Jelly Morton, that she would keep him safe so that he could get his data into his stupid program and give her the response that she needed to crack this case. _Hell of a lot of faith, Charlie. You trust your brother like this? You crazy for being here?_

And there would be hell to pay if Charlie Eppes got shot, even worse if he got killed. Jelly Morton could kiss her career good bye, maybe end up a security guard somewhere in a backwater museum telling snotty-nosed kids how the West was won.

Time to clean up this mess. Time to get the hell out of Dodge. She tapped her radio. "Aarons," she hissed. "How's the back look?"

"Clean, boss. You're keeping 'em busy."

"Give these bozos a way out," she directed.

"Boss?"

"They're low level low lifes," she rationalized. "They don't know anything, and they're keeping us from getting to the computer files. Those are what we need. We can pick these guys up any time. Let 'em loose, and we'll collect the files." She gritted her teeth. "We don't have enough firepower to take these guys down. We'll get ourselves killed before back up arrives."

"Got it. Pulling back."

Morton hunched down behind the desk, making certain that Charlie was hunched down beside her. "Stay down," she breathed.

"Jessica? Should I—?"

"Don't do anything." Sudden fear shot through her. This really was a civilian, not a retired FBI agent posing as a consultant for a little extra cash on the side who could handle himself in a dicey situation. This was Don Eppes' brother. "Stay down. This has gotten a little nastier than it was supposed to be. Stay down. It'll be over in a few."

"Okay." Eyes wide. Still trusting her to get him through this. And why shouldn't he? His big brother had been doing the same thing for years. Hell, if the stories that Morton had heard were true, Eppes had been fighting his dorky little brother's battles for him since they were kids with bullies picking on the little math genius. It wouldn't be that hard for Charlie to believe that Morton would do the same thing. And, truth be told, it was what she had better do under the circumstances. She pumped off another shot, in frustration as much as anything else.

"They're moving," Metzger called from the other side of the room.

They were. The thugs were tugging the sofa back with them, inching toward the back exit. They'd seen that the way was clear, that they had a way out, and they were going to take it. Their job was done; they'd engaged the FBI agents in a serious dust up and made it clear that this wholesale damage to Mr. Blackburn's businesses was not going to be tolerated by offering some return abuse to the FBI. The sofa, soaking up the bullets, was their shield.

Until the sofa could go no further, blocked by more furniture. There was still some six feet to the exit, not far by any stretch but long enough for an ambitious agent to throw lead.

"Watch it," Morton warned. "They're going to—"

The four thugs jumped to their feet and lay down a flurry of bullets, covering their escape.

"Let 'em go!" Morton's yell could barely be heard over the gunfire. She ducked down instinctively, covering her head, only reaching up once to give a single answering shot without anything but the most general of aiming in the correct direction. The noise was deafening; she couldn't hear anything. She blocked her ears.

Sound wasn't going to help; it was just overwhelming noise. She couldn't see much from behind the desk because putting her eyes above desk level was a good way to get a new part in her hair. Morton concentrated on the puffs of wind that zipped past, each one accompanied by a bullet that ended up somewhere behind her and behind the other agents, all equally as involved with protecting their own asses from being shot.

Someone cried out. Morton whirled her head around. It was Aarons, clutching at his rib cage. He was all right; his partner gave her the thumbs up sign. The vest had stopped the bullet. The man would be sore but would be going home to the wife and kids. He'd merit a line in her report and nothing more. That was good.

The bullets kept coming. Morton ducked; one whiffed through her hair. Not quite a part, just the equivalent of a bobby pin. Damn, how many clips did those perps have?

Grunt, body flopping over. Charlie slumped against her, struggled to catch his balance. Sudden fear: not _Eppes_—no, he was okay. Still breathing. Pale, but no blood anywhere.

"You hurt?" she hissed. He blinked at her, owl-eyed.

No time now. Had to get those slug-throwing slugs out of here. Morton darted up, sent off another clip.

Then: silence.

It was deafening after so much noise.

First things first: secure the area. Morton cautiously rose, gun in hand, aware of her team doing the same thing around her. The four thugs were gone, escaped through the back door exit that she'd allowed them. One cameraman was dead, another bleeding from a leg wound; those, she was certain, were from the opposition's fire. She and hers had been more careful. Both kids were alive and bawling and still tied up. She was tempted to leave them that way until someone from Social Services could collect them. Kids like that had a tendency to run, even when staying was in their best interests. Stupid kids.

Area secure. Next priority: the wounded. The idiot civilian who'd followed her inside like a puppy dog. Morton gentled her voice deliberately, pushing away the adrenaline that threatened to make her shout. "Charlie?"

He blinked again.

"Where are you hurt?"

"I—" The mouth worked, but not much else.

"Let me see." Morton helped him to sit up, leaned him against the bullet-riddled desk. "Here. You caught one in the back."

"The back?" Charlie's eyes automatically glanced toward that part of the room. It was away from where the thugs were hiding behind the sofa. "How—?"

But Morton understood his confusion. "Ricochet. It slowed the bullet down. It bounced off of the back wall and caught you in the back, lodged in the vest. Without the vest, you'd've been—" she checked herself quickly. "You were in no danger, professor." She smiled engagingly. _Don't tell your big brother, Charlie._ "You'll have a nice bruise over your ribs, but nothing more. So will Aarons over there. He got hit mid chest." She shrugged, so coolly noncommittal that she awed even herself. "Happens all the time. We don't even bother reporting this sort of thing; we'd get laughed at for bringing it up." Morton winked at Charlie. "Now you have the same thing not to talk about. One of us, now." She deliberately changed the subject. "Did you learn much?"

"Yeah." Charlie made an equally deliberate attempt to regain control of himself. He tried for a joke. "I learned that bullets travel a lot faster in real life than they do on paper. You and Don do this often?"

"All the time," Morton lied, matching Charlie's tone. "Hey, you'll even get a line in my report," she told him, lying again. _Let this be known? Not a chance. Not in something that either Area Director D'Angelo or Don Eppes would see. Distraction time now_: "Let's see what they left behind. Must have been a big cache for them to be so upset." She extended a hand, pulled Charlie to his feet, pretended not to see him wobble for an entirely too long moment. "C'mon. You too, Aarons. Walk it off."

"You walk it off," Aarons grumbled, clutching his chest where it hurt, but he hoisted himself up and followed after them.

Morton found her next disappointment of the day: the office had been trashed. 'Trashed' didn't adequately describe the devastation wrought in the business area of the studio. The computers had been wrecked, the boxes smashed with something like a sledge hammer. The hard copy files were all missing, though Morton found a few strands still caught in the shredder. More had been burned in the trash can, the cold ashes proving that the deed had been accomplished over an hour ago.

She looked around, unable to believe what her eyes were telling her. "They knew we were coming." She knew it as if Blackburn himself had sent her a notarized statement attesting to the fact. "Somehow, they knew we were coming. They knew."

"How could they have known?" Metzger came up behind her. "You only got the warrant a couple of hours ago."

"Look at this, and tell me that they didn't know!" Morton slammed her fist onto a desk in frustration. It rattled precariously. The joints had been loosened by the smashing process, and the piece now in danger of collapsing altogether. "This was a total damn waste of time!"

"We closed down another porn studio—" Metzger started to say.

She glared at him. "A total waste of time." She glared at the room. "A total waste of time," she repeated. Her gaze lit on Charlie Eppes. The man was meandering around the room, peering at this and that, careful not to touch anything but still looking for anything he could put in those equations of his.

Jelly Morton's eyes narrowed. Don Eppes wouldn't have sent his own brother into a firefight. The man had that much character, at least. But Don Eppes hadn't _known_ that Morton would invite Charlie Eppes along. He would have thought that Charlie would go back to that office of his to play with number blocks, safely out of the way with his stupid laptop. But if Don Eppes had told someone else that Morton was planning this raid, someone who could have arranged all of this? If Eppes had put out the information that could have led to the death of FBI agents? Because _someone _sure as hell knew they were coming.

Then Don Eppes was dirty.

And Jelly Morton would take him down.


	7. Tug of War 7

Don swung the door to his dad's house—'scuse me, _Charlie's_ house—open with his foot, a large box in his arms. "Loosey, I'm home," he called out in an atrocious mimicry of Desi Arnaz. "Yo, Charlie! You home?"

Charlie sighed. He could guess what Don wanted: food and work, both coming from Charlie. Jessica Morton had been right: there was now a glorious rainbow bruise on his back the size of a watermelon. Well, maybe a _small_ watermelon, but big nonetheless. And it hurt whenever he moved, which meant that he was moving very slowly and as little as possibly.

Charlie had successfully dodged his father. Alan Eppes had been on his way out for an evening with friends—"Poker, Charlie. A real man's game. One that I can beat you at. Unlike chess."—and had left some lasagna from the night before in the fridge. Charlie had planned to nuke it into being taste-worthy, spend a short time doing something mindless, and then taking his aching ribs to bed with a heavy dose of ibuprofen. _And Don does this all the time?_ Charlie's estimation of his brother, already high, elevated itself yet another notch.

And now here was Don, more work in the box in his arms. Charlie forced a smile to his face, hoping that it didn't look too tepid. "Hey, Don."

"Getting better and better, buddy," Don announced. Clearly in a good mood, Charlie noted, trying to keep his own sour expression from his face so that Don wouldn't notice. And why shouldn't Don be in a good mood? Don's raids had gone well, as evidenced by the overflowing box in his arms. "You know those places that you pinpointed for us? That Sweet Things Candy shop and the JB Imports? Beautiful busts, buddy. Couldn't have gone better. They never knew we were coming, and their people just about rolled over and played dead for us. We waltzed in and got what we wanted. No shots fired, worst thing they were capable of doing was to say a couple of nasty words along with 'I want my lawyer, and my mommy', not necessarily in that order." He indicated the box. "This is just a small sampling of the files from JB Imports. Thought you'd want to take a preliminary look, maybe get a head start on stuff." He grinned again. "Can you believe it? Six boxes of files from each place, and that's before we download the computers. Which we, of course, confiscated first thing." His grin grew wider. "The area director is really pleased with this, buddy. He's authorized me to grab sixteen clerks from the pool tomorrow to help you input this stuff into your program. Sixteen clerks, Charlie! Do you know how many man hours that is?"

"One hundred and twenty eight, in an eight hour day," Charlie said, trying to cover up how tired he was. It didn't take even three brain cells to calculate that tidbit. "Less coffee breaks, which, assuming fifteen minutes twice daily per clerk, brings it down to one hundred twenty hours per day. The lunch hour is excluded."

"Whatever." Don looked for a place to put the box, elected not to dump it onto the kitchen table, and settled for one of the chairs. "Dad making dinner?"

"Dad's gone out for the evening. Poker," Charlie explained before Don could ask. "You want to cook, or shall I?"

Quickest way to get his brother out and away, because Charlie really didn't want to discuss Morton's raid with Special Agent Eppes. Ask Don to cook, and the man would run. The more Charlie thought about it, the less certain he was that he should have been in that situation in the first place, in a gun fight, and if Don ever found out about it…That little scene in Morton's office a couple of days ago would be nothing to the fireworks that would erupt over this, and Charlie really didn't want to be the cause of inter-office warfare between two agents. No, better that Don never found out. The bruise would go away before his brother ever saw it, and no one in the family would be any the wiser. And if his father happened to notice something while Charlie was on his way back from the bathroom in the main hall? Charlie could make up some experimental mishap at CalSci. Charlie had a reputation for being clumsy, undeserved though it was. Yeah, this was do-able. Charlie could keep it quiet.

"Cook?" Don stopped just short of wrinkling up his nose. "Pizza?"

"I had pizza last night," Charlie reminded him. "My client, for whom I frequently consult, bought it for me."

"Oh. Right. Chinese?"

_Gotta get him outta here_. Charlie shrugged artistically, refusing to wince. "Sounds good to me. You can help me input the data while we wait."

The smile froze on Don's face. "I can go get it. The Chinese food, I mean."

"Sounds good to me," Charlie repeated, striving to sound cheerful. "I'll get working on the data, then you can do some inputting while I eat."

The smile stayed frozen, then Don just as artistically looked at his watch. "Whoa! Look at the time! I promised, uh, Colby, that I'd meet him to go over some cases. Listen, how about a rain check on the Chinese?"

Charlie got in his own dig. "You got it, Don. Why don't you plan to get some this weekend? Right after you finish cleaning out the back shed."

Don fled.

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The commissary coffee wasn't the greatest, but it was hot, and it was black, and it was filled with caffeine. Don sipped at it, savoring the taste of scalded tongue along with the bitter aroma. It was the first cup of the day, and Don felt that he deserved it. He deserved at least one cup and possibly two. And he grabbed a Danish—he deserved that, too.

There were a lot of things right with the world. The two raids on JB Imports and Sweet Things Candy yesterday had gone extremely well, and the results of the raids were already being entered into several different server computers by the sixteen clerks that the area director had assigned to Don's case. His brother/consultant had a class to teach this morning, Charlie had said in a quick phone call earlier, so he had already phoned in instructions to the FBI's IT department to get the clerks started. Charlie would come in later, once the data had been inputted and his class dismissed, to see how it was coming along. The instruction that Charlie had given hadn't been hard to implement; it was a basic commercial program that Charlie wanted the clerks to use. The IT guru's scoffed, and offered a high end version.

The clerks rebelled. They couldn't figure out how to use the high end version with all its bells and whistles. And if they couldn't figure it out instinctively, they said, then the uber-geek IT guru's would end up putting the data in themselves.

The regular commercial program got used.

There were more things right with the world, and a major one of those right things involved Jessica Jelly Morton. The expression on her face when she limped back to headquarters yesterday afternoon had been joyous to behold. And Don couldn't even take credit for this one. Somehow that Up the Creek place had gotten tipped off that she was coming, and all the evidence was either removed or destroyed before she'd ever stepped foot on the premises. Waste of time. Total waste of time and bullets. Nobody was seriously injured with the exception of a couple of cameramen headed for jail. Even Aarons, who'd taken one to the vest, was prancing around offering to show off his bruise. It was a nasty one, already all colors of the rainbow, and Aarons was proud of it.

Well, yeah, it also meant that Don himself didn't have a third of the data that he'd wanted to give to Charlie. Charlie had said that he needed stuff from all three places in order to pinpoint Blackburn. But that would come and the delay was worth it to see Morton humiliated. Don and team would dig into the stuff that they had, they'd put it through Charlie's wringer equations, and he'd come up with some sort of mumbo-jumbo that would either nail Blackburn's hide to the wall or figure out the last and final place to get what he needed for Don to then nail Blackburn's hide to the wall. Either way, it was close to the end of this case. _Don_ was close, and _Morton_ was not. End of story. Pleasure doing business.

Don had even given himself the joy of reading Morton's report of her fiasco. Terse, very terse. He'd smiled over her stationing a mere two agents at the back door, only to pull them back to let the gunmen escape in order to keep the whole FBI team from getting killed. The report even detailed Aarons getting shot, then treated and released at the scene. Then all six of the agents had trotted over to the Up the Creek business office to find the place closed indefinitely, no forwarding address and _definitely_ no forwarding leads. Yes, Morton had put in all the pertinent details, leaving nothing out. _Grin_.

Yeah, life was good. It was so good that Don treated himself to another cup of coffee, savoring the moment if not the beverage, taking it with him on his way to check on the clerks. Gary Metzger passed him in the corridor, giving him a friendly and lackadaisical wave. "Hey, Don. Heard you had some successes yesterday."

"Yeah." Don fought down the gloat. It wasn't Metzger's fault that he'd been assigned to Morton's team. From what Megan had said earlier this morning, it didn't sound like Metzger was any too happy over it. Some of the clerical pool were taking bets as to when the transfer papers would get filed, with one or two of the clerks were swearing that not only had the papers already been filed but that Metzger had asked to be assigned to the Eppes squad. Don liked that. Good PR for him, and, frankly, Gary Metzger was a good man. "Yeah, it was sweet. They should all be like that."

"Yeah," Metzger responded gloomily. "Almost got my head shot off yesterday, and nothing from it. Darrell Aarons is still sore. By the way, how's Charlie? Didn't see him around this morning, and I thought he'd said that he'd be in here first thing."

"Charlie? He's fine. He had class. He'll be in later, he said."

"That's good. I was a little worried." Metzger's steps were taking him past and down the hall through the oncoming crunch of people also on the hunt for caffeine.

Don stopped and turned in the midst of the crowd. "You were worried about Charlie?" Something didn't sound right. Warning flags ran up the flagpole.

"Well, yeah. Gotta take care of our consultants." Metzger disappeared in the throng of passers by with a casual wave.

Don didn't move. The tide of people wafted around him, one or two giving him dirty looks for standing in the flow. Don ignored them. He had more important things on his mind, like running through last evening's conversation with his consultant and getting out of cooking dinner.

He picked up the internal phone on the side hall, calling up to Megan's desk. "Megan? Don. Listen, I've got something I want to discuss with Charlie. I'll take some of the inputted data along with me, see if he's finished teaching for the day. Yeah, I know it's early." _That doesn't matter. I want answers, and I want them from my brother, and I want them now_. "I'll be back in an hour."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Don walked into Charlie's office at nine forty-two on the nose. Charlie was sitting behind his desk, grading papers. A bottle of ibuprofen sat on one corner, along with a glass of water suitable for washing down pills. Charlie looked up as Don walked inside, immediately suppressing the worried double take. He put on a deliberately cheerful expression. "Hey, Don. You have more data for me?"

Don ignored the greeting. "Class finish early today, buddy?" Deceptively mild.

Unaccountably, Charlie flushed. "Uh…yeah. Easy test. The students got out early…"

Don wasn't buying it. He planted himself in front of Charlie's desk and stared down at his brother. "I want a straight answer, Charlie. Did you accompany Special Agent Morton on her raid on Up the Creek yesterday?" His voice remained steady and cold; a sure sign that he was keeping himself under tight control. This was Special Agent Eppes in an interrogation.

"Don, I—"

"Yes or no, Charlie."

Charlie cringed. "There wasn't any danger, Don—"

"You were shot."

"I was wearing a vest—"

"You were _shot_, Charlie!" It wasn't quite a shout.

Charlie's eyes were haunted. "Don, I don't want to cause any trouble—"

"Are you all right?"

"It's just a little bruise." Charlie downplayed the incident. "I thought it would be all right. I've gone to crime scenes with you before. I didn't realize—"

"This wasn't a crime scene, Charlie. This was a raid. You've never needed a vest when you were with me." Don felt an unnatural cold seep through him. Too angry, and too controlled. "Where were you hit?"

"On my back. It was just a ricochet, Jessica said. Really, Don, it's okay—"

"It is not okay, Charlie. It is very much not okay." The anger settled into a grim determination. Bending the rules happened, and Don himself had bent more than one until it squeaked. But this was different. This wasn't just bending the rules, this was breaking them and putting a valuable consultant in danger of his life by doing so. It wasn't just that it was his brother—though he knew that Morton would try to claim that—but _any_ person who didn't have field training. Don would take Charlie to a crime scene to gather additional data to input into his work, but putting a non-combatant's life at risk was not something that he did deliberately. He did not, repeat: _did not_ take Charlie on field maneuvers where he could get shot at.

But Charlie drew himself up, putting his hands together. Taking control. "You're right, Don, it's not okay. But this is equally my fault. _I_ knew where she was going. _I _knew the risks. _I_ accepted the vest from Special Agent Morton. You have never told me to put on a bullet proof vest, and I should have realized at that point that I was in over my head. Yes, we were lucky that nothing serious happened. It could have. We have all learned from this incident, me most of all. In the future, I'll do more questioning. I put everyone at risk by being there." He cocked his head, coming to a decision. "I think I need to sit the rest of this investigation out, Don. I don't like being the prize in a tug of war between you and another agent. This is going in a direction that it shouldn't."

Don disagreed. "No. You need to stay on this case, Charlie. This is bigger—should be bigger—than two field agents. Blackburn is a major force in crime that needs to be removed, and I hope that I'm a big enough person to admit that I can't do this without someone like you. But I do agree that this battle ends here." He too came to a decision. "Morton went too far. Until further notice, I don't want you working with her." He gentled his voice. "I'm saying this as a senior agent, buddy, not as your brother. My next stop will be Morton's office. This will be resolved within the hour, either with her here and now or I go to Area Director D'Angelo. Can you live with that?"

The relief on Charlie's face gave Don his answer, but Charlie spoke anyway. "I can live with that." One corner of his mouth quirked upward. "And I'm really glad that I can finish solving that problem that you've got sixteen clerks working on. I hate leaving a problem unsolved."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Ideally, it should look like an accident," the deep voice said. "Loss of control over the car, a plunge over a cliff, brakes failing. Perhaps a loose brick from a parapet on top of a building will fall with lethal consequences. Given the circumstances, though, it wouldn't surprise me if more obvious means were needed. I understand that we are dealing with a highly trained FBI agent. However, you need to hear that I am equally concerned, if not more so, with the financial analyst that they are using. The name that I have been given for the analyst deeply troubles me. It is that person that must be eliminated at all cost for this organization to continue. He will be the priority. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Blackburn."

"Take precautions, but if a change of location to another country is required, it will be provided without delay."

"Yes, sir." There was relief. Blackburn was a hard but fair employer. "It'll be done, sir, within twenty four hours."

"Satisfactory. Report back when the task is completed."


	8. Tug of War 8

Don walked out to the parking lot, pausing to tug open the door to his Suburban, pausing again when his cell phone signaled for attention. The bruise on his brother's back had looked vicious, but it would fade. It would hurt during the fading process, but that was all. His brother had been lucky—damn lucky. It could have been his head, and the world would be out one certified genius. Don felt cold just at the thought. He pulled out his cell. "Eppes."

"Don? Megan. Listen, you need to get back here now. D'Angelo's looking for you."

"What's wrong? Something go wrong with the case?"

"Not exactly." Megan tried to evade a direct answer, then gave up and laid it straight out. "This morning Morton interrogated one of the kids that she picked up on her Up the Creek raid herself, didn't wait for anyone from Juvie to be present. She leaned pretty hard; Gary Metzger saw it. The kid is now spending the night in the hospital."

"Gary's got kids himself." Don sucked in his breath. "Even street kids, you treat 'em right. And—?"

"He went straight to D'Angelo; D'Angelo blew his stack. D'Angelo is looking for you, wants some corroborating evidence." Another pregnant pause. "Scuttlebutt says that she falsified her report."

"Shit." Don wasn't about to admit that he and every FBI agent he knew had occasionally 'forgotten' a couple of details, but never anything substantial, even when it led to a reprimand. Better a reprimand for bending the rules than to get caught falsifying a report. Careers had been destroyed by a single deliberately falsified report. Don wasn't going to have to report Morton's taking Charlie along on a raid, because it was never going to happen again. Morton herself would never lead another raid, never sit in her office in FBI headquarters because Don knew that the scuttlebutt was true. He'd read Morton's report; there hadn't been anything about Charlie being present. Or getting shot. "I'm on my way back now."

"Good. Make it fast. D'Angelo is hot."

"I can believe it." But Don made best time back to headquarters.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They let Aarons watch her clean out her desk. They didn't trust her alone, didn't trust her to make a quiet exit without taking something that didn't belong to her. She wasn't official any more, and non-official types weren't permitted unescorted in the building. So Aarons 'escorted' her. Her gun was already locked in Area Director's desk, along with her badge.

The walk down the hallway had been bad enough. Did everybody know what was going on? Eppes and his crew certainly did. They tried to hide, but Morton saw that Granger guy sneak a couple dozen glances at her, and Reeves did the same with an expression of pity on her face.

Supercilious bastards. This was all Eppes' fault. Couldn't stand the competition, so he put Morton's own team up to ratting her out. And it was all over a stupid kid, one who didn't even know enough to run away from the creeps who were abusing her and selling the films of what they did. So the kid ended up in a hospital—was that Morton's fault? The kid tried to run out of the room; Morton had caught her. Was it Morton's fault that the kid fell and cracked something? The brat was twelve; she ought to know how to walk by now.

What had Eppes promised Metzger? A chance on his own team, a chance to bask in the limelight that Eppes wasn't willing to share with her? Morton couldn't think of any other reason why Gary Metzger, a member of her own people, would turn on her. It was a good thing that it wasn't Metzger who was watching her clean out her desk. She'd have stabbed him with the rusty letter opener that the previous occupant had left behind.

She set her jaw, and dumped her things into a box. It wasn't much; Jelly Morton didn't have much baggage. No family pictures, no mementos. Those things were for people with a history. Jessica Jelly Morton still had history to _make_. Only it wouldn't be here, in this dump.

Don Eppes watched his former fellow agent go through the drawers to her desk, keeping the office blinds mostly closed so that he could observe unseen. Yeah, she probably knew that he was watching, that everyone in the entire building was watching. Hell, someone right now was probably fiddling with the security cameras so that one or more could be trained on the poor woman. It was too bad, but she'd brought it on herself. She was a loose cannon waiting to explode. Don himself had been on his way back to headquarters to have it out with her once and for all, but he hadn't intended to take the matter upstairs unless she forced him to. Agents ought to be able to work together. He and Morton ought to have been able to settle their differences, to share a case and a consultant without putting that consultant into the line of fire, either figuratively or literally. Don wasn't about to throw her to the wolves, but it was too late now. The kid was in the hospital, and Morton's badge and gun were in D'Angelo's desk. It was over. A brilliant career down the drain.

David and Megan had been waiting downstairs in the lobby for him when he walked in, waiting to escort him directly upstairs by D'Angelo's explicit orders. He didn't even have a chance to toss his coat on the hook in his office en route; David relieved him of it, promising to hand deliver the coat to Don's office.

Yeah, Morton's report had been falsified: there was no mention of Charlie being at the raid at Up the Creek. Don knew that, had read the report yesterday after it had been turned in, hadn't realized that something was amiss until he'd talked to Charlie less than an hour ago. And Don had had to confirm to Area Director D'Angelo that Charlie was at the raid, that he'd caught a ricochet in the vest. Yes, Special Agent Eppes had seen the bruise, had taken the information from Dr. Eppes that the injury had occurred during an excursion initiated by Special Agent Morton. No, Dr. Eppes didn't want to push the issue any farther. Dr. Eppes would be just as happy if the matter was never raised in his presence ever again. Yes, Dr. Eppes wanted to continue on Special Agent Eppes' case, bringing down one of the larger crime figures on the L.A. scene.

Area Director D'Angelo had made it quick. He had also made Don Eppes stay, as a witness to the action. Morton had known what was happening from the moment she stepped into D'Angelo's office, from the moment that she'd seen Don there with a grim look on his face, had known that she wouldn't walk out with her badge or her gun. That her career was over. That she'd run up against an agent that she couldn't walk over, couldn't get what she wanted either by being better than he was or by stabbing him in the back. She was through.

It had been brutal, but drawing out the agony would have been worse. D'Angelo accepted Morton's resignation, effective immediately with two weeks' severance pay. Loss of benefits.

Loss of career.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Don deliberately put the episode behind him, wanting to move on as quickly as possible. There was no benefit to dwelling on it. He walked down to the clerical pool room where the files and downloads were being laboriously typed into computers by sixteen sets of fingers. No, actually, it was only fourteen sets at the moment; Maude and Wanda were snitching a ciggie in the back. Illegal—this was federal property—but that was one crime that would go unpunished until the ladies came down with emphysema in another ten to twenty with five years off of their lives for bad behavior.

Not a big problem, the momentary loss of four hands. Don determined that ninety five percent of the data had been entered, and it was time to get the consultant down to look over what he had wrought. This time, Don thought unhappily, he wouldn't have to worry about Charlie being accosted by Morton. This was almost worse.

Don met his brother in the lobby anyway. Charlie glanced around, and Don correctly interpreted the look. "She's not here, buddy."

"Don?"

"_I_ didn't go to the area director."

"Someone else did." Charlie caught the nuance.

"Yeah."

Charlie dropped it. It was uncomfortable, it no longer had any bearing on his work, and Charlie wanted to forget about the whole thing as quickly as possible. "How are the data entry personnel coming along?"

"Almost done. You ready to do your thing?"

Charlie smiled. "Let me plug in my laptop. This may take a little while to correlate all the data." He smiled again, the expression a little crooked around the edges but acceptable for its purpose. "Don't wait up."

"Hah." Don would be here as long as Charlie, if not longer. "Pizza?"

"Isn't there that Middle Eastern joint a couple of blocks from here?"

"Yeah, but they don't deliver."

"You want to help me do the Directional Analysis of the equations in four dimensions? I could use the assistance." Butter could melt in Charlie's mouth, he was so innocent.

"I'll play delivery boy."

Charlie grinned. It looked real this time. "I hear the shed in the back yard still needs to be cleaned out," he called after the retreating back.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Charlie's portion of the take out food lay untouched. And the smile on his face was upside down. "It's not enough."

"Charlie?" Eleven o'clock at night, and they were all still here. Colby had fallen asleep in his chair, taking advantage of the lull. Megan was curled up but eyes at half-mast. David was awake, courtesy of three cups of espresso from the Middle Eastern restaurant that Don had gotten food from. He was wired.

And so was Charlie, but that was Charlie's normal state of being. It just wasn't helping this time. "It's not enough."

"The data?" It was all that they had. Morton had screwed up, and the data from her piece of the puzzle was gone in a flurry of gunfire and bruises.

"The data," Charlie confirmed. "There's another layer between these three and your suspect. I almost have him, I can almost identify him, but I don't have all the pieces that I need."

"What do you need, buddy?" Don stifled a yawn and came to look over his brother's shoulder.

The computer screen was covered with numbers and graphs. It was a good thing that Charlie understood what it meant, because Don sure didn't and he was pretty certain that no one else in the room did, either. "I need another lead."

"Which we don't have." Don seated himself beside his brother. "Talk me through this."

"Here," and Charlie pointed to the computer screen, "is the pipeline through Sweet Things Candy. The money flows into four channels. JB Imports eliminates one of those channels as a side line pipe, but there are still three left to choose from. One leads to your suspect, and the others to innocent stockholders who think that they've invested in peppermints." He sighed. "Up the Creek would have eliminated at least one more channel, maybe two." Charlie sighed again. "I'm leaving you with sixty seven suspects, any of which could be Mr. Blackburn."

"Sixty seven?" David too was unhappy. "That's a lot of suspects. Can't you narrow it down?"

"I did narrow it down," Charlie said plaintively. "That's why it's only sixty-seven and not one hundred forty three. I've improved your odds by fifty-three percent."

"Thank you," David replied, not meaning it. "Don?"

Don sighed, glancing up at the clock. "We'll tackle it in the morning. Late morning," he amended. "We deserve to sleep in for an hour. Sixty seven suspects," he groaned. "We'll be able to rule a lot of them out with a quick pass through some data banks. I hope." He turned to his brother. "C'mon, Charlie. I'll drive you home. You must be sore."

"Not a bit," Charlie lied. "But it is a school night, and I have an early class."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He wore unremarkable sweats. There was a logo on the front, but it was small and discreet—and unnoticeable and untraceable. He had been taking advantage of the cool morning air to go jogging around CalSci, and sweat now poured off of his brow.

A car pulled up beside him. He flicked it a worried glance, but ambled over, trying to look innocent, and stuck his head through the window. "What are you doing here?"

"Tailing," the driver said. "This is where she came."

"She's here?"

"She's here. That's her car over there, the Miata, the blue one with the hood down. She must be talking to the consultant. Think we can get 'em both in one shot?"

"Worth a chance." The jogger slid into the front passenger side. "You want to pick up my toys or do you think we can make do with just yours?"

"Let's leave yours where they are," the driver advised. "What if they come out while we're getting your stuff?"

"Good point. We'll wait right here for 'em."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Charlie flopped down into his chair in his office, sprawling out, the papers that had been in his hand now equally sprawled out over his desk. 'Hate' was too strong a word, but he sincerely _disliked_ the day after a test with all the nit-picking, the 'this is what I really meant' and the 'doesn't that _one_ look like a _seven_ to you, Prof. Eppes?' and the constant jockeying for points, as if getting a single point higher on a single test would result in a better overall GPA which would result in graduate admission to Harvard instead of Yale instead of Princeton instead of _insert the graduate school name of choice_ in the blank. Charlie himself had attended Princeton and not only enjoyed it but received an excellent education, but he wasn't about to fool himself into believing that other schools weren't equally as capable. It was more a matter of finding the best match for the student skill set with the educational opportunities. In other words, you make your own luck.

Which led him to think about Special Agent Jelly Morton. Sure, she'd made her own luck. She'd put in hours, she worked hard to solve difficult cases, and she looked for answers. But somewhere along the line, she started taking chances. Sometimes those chances paid off. Charlie remembered hearing Don speak in grudging admiration about her when she'd cracked one of his unsolved cases.

He wondered how she was faring. Don had said that Morton wasn't there any more but hadn't elaborated. Suspended? Terminated? Maybe just put onto desk duty for a while until everything blew over? Charlie would probably never know, because he wasn't about to bring up the name in conversation with Don. Too many potential bombs in that that verbal minefield. Maybe he should ask Megan?

Sigh. Maybe he should just forget about Jelly Morton.

Sigh. Wish he could forget about those tests sitting on his desk. Creating the test had been fun; kind of a test of wits. Grading them had been tedious, handing them out annoying. But the worst part of any test, Charlie was convinced, was filing them after it was all over so that they could be dragged out when needed to prove that a B plus was the appropriate final average instead of an A minus.

Whatever happened to those tests after the course was all over? Charlie usually was forced into an annual day of cleaning out the files, moaning and groaning that he had better things to do, putting those papers into carefully labeled boxes, carted away and never to be seen again. It was one of the true philosophical questions in life: what happened to old tests?

He really did have better things to do at the moment, and his annual post spring semester cleaning day was well in the future. He made the conscious and joyous decision that filing the completed tests could wait in favor of more interesting projects. After all, his back was still sore, and that entitled him to do something more thought-consuming so that he could forget that he hurt.

Okay, decision made. Which more interesting project should he tackle? Cognitive Emergence theory or the FBI thing? Charlie glanced at his watch: just after eleven. Don had said that they were going to start running down some of the names in the morning, see who they could rule out of the sixty seven that Charlie's math had identified as potentials for being the crime figure Black Bart. Or he could put another couple of hours into Larry's project that he'd promised to help with, stuff that right now was more mindless than fun. The fun part of Larry's project was over, the part where Charlie came up with the equation that would delineate the parameters of Larry's project. Now came the data entry part to prove Larry's theory: boring.

Well, that let out Larry's project. Charlie felt the need to do something stimulating, and Larry's project no longer qualified. It was fun while it lasted, but now it was time to drag in a grad student or two to finish it up. He left a couple of messages on a couple of deserving cell phones, directing them to the appropriate work, and grinned to himself. He wouldn't go back to those days for anything. Much more fun being a full professor.

He looked at his watch again. FBI. Definitely FBI. He didn't have any more classes to teach today, and looking over Don's shoulder sounded infinitely more interesting than anything else with the added benefit that doing so usually percolated enough thoughts in his head that he would be able to come up with a way to further narrow down the list of potentials.

Decision made. He was down and out on the sidewalk before he'd even realized it, drinking in the warm L.A. sun and enjoying the fresh air. Even his laptop was in its case, tucked under his arm, though he couldn't remember consciously putting the machine there. Wonderful when his body did what he wanted without him needing to think about it.

Someone fell into step beside him. "Hey, Charlie."

Charlie was startled. He blinked. "Jessica?"

"In the flesh." She winked at him.

Okay, this was puzzling. Don had told him that he wouldn't be seeing Special Agent Morton again. Obviously Don had been wrong, because here she was, right in Charlie's face. And in entirely too good a mood for what had happened. What was going on?

Tread softly time. "What can I help you with?" Cautiously. Trying to keep the nerves under control.

Morton didn't beat around the bush. "I need your help, Charlie."

"Okay," Charlie said slowly. Was she still on the case? Charlie hadn't thought so, from what Don had said. But Don hadn't said very much. Maybe he'd meant that the area director had simply separated the two of them, had split the cases, even though Charlie didn't see how that could be done. The two cases were one. Charlie's math proved that, that Morton's porn studios were part of Black Bart's multi-tentacled organization.

And Don had told Charlie not to deal with Morton any more. Which was all fine and good, but she was here and Don was not.

Stall for time, try to figure out what Morton wanted. Charlie could always call Don later, out of earshot, let his brother sort it out. "What can I help you with?"

It was as if Morton could read his thoughts. "I suppose you heard."

_Oops_. Back pedal. "Not any details. I'm sorry." She must have been taken off of the case instead of Don. _Maybe she's got a new case, wants my help with that_.

"Sorry." Morton's bark of laughter was forced. "D'Angelo was sorry. Aarons was sorry. Everyone was sorry. Even your brother said he was sorry, like he meant it." She took Charlie by the arm, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow as if they were stepping out for a stroll around town. "I need your help, Charlie. I need to prove that they were wrong."

"What do you mean?" As in, _I can't lie and say I wasn't there at the raid, Special Agent Morton. The bruise as evidence is pretty clear._

"They need me." That, to Morton, was obvious. "They can't solve this case without me. And once I solve it, they'll _have_ to reinstate me." She smiled at Charlie, taking refuge in the sex-as-a-weapon look. She continued in a throaty whisper. "I want _all_ the information that you have. Everything you gave to your brother. All of it." She leaned into him. She was as tall as he was, eye-level. Her hand on his arm tensed. "I want Blackburn."

_Ouch_. Okay, need to back out of this gracefully. "I'm not certain—"

"Yes, you are, Charlie." Jessica Morton didn't quite bat her eyelashes, but it came close. Charlie caught a glimpse of an astoundingly accomplished undercover agent that she could be. He could well understand how she could have reeled in so many suspects. He was just about ready to fall on his knees and beg her to accept all the data that he had at his disposal. Only the memory of his brother looming at him over his desk kept Charlie from that path. Memory of his brother's fury at Morton's irresponsible actions.

Morton tugged gently on his arm, guiding Charlie to her Miata. "Get in."

Charlie balked. "Where are we going?"

"Someplace that I know. Someplace where you can work without other people getting in your way. Where you can identify Black Bart for me, so I can go arrest him."

Uh-oh. Getting into Jelly Morton's car didn't seem like a particularly sensible thing to do.

"Look, Jessica. Special Agent Morton—"

"Get into the car, Charlie." There was no wavering in her voice. "I know what I'm doing. I'm not the first agent that this has happened to. Other people have gone this route. I'll bet that even your brother has crossed the line a time or two and been forgiven." She smiled at Charlie, the flesh tight across her full lips. "I need to bring down Black Bart, so that the FBI can point to this and say, 'yes, she walks a fine line, but she brings in the suspects.' This is the case that will allow D'Angelo to gracefully back down and say that he made a mistake in firing me." She opened the car door for him. "I _need_ this, Charlie. And I need you to help me get it."

Trapped. The car, the car door, and Morton made a tight triangle that blocked him in. No place to go. Pushing past Jelly Morton wasn't going to work, and climbing over her car and out through the other side seemed a little slow, not to mention extreme.

Or maybe not. Morton crowded him, slowly forcing Charlie to sit down into the car, using an abuse of good manners and years of manhandling suspects to put him where she wanted him. She closed the car door firmly behind him, swiftly jumping into the driver's seat.

Charlie pulled out his cell. "I need to let someone know to cover my next class," he tried to say. He had Don on speed dial—

Morton plucked the cell out of his grasp. "They'll figure it out. Fasten your seat belt. I don't want to get a ticket." She smoothly guided the Miata out of the parking lot, looking both ways before pulling out into the gentle wave of traffic.

She didn't look behind her.


	9. Tug of War 9

Colby glared at the computer screen. "Third one down. This one is a little old lady who invested in Sweet Things as part of an investment club. Her birth certificate is a little bit shady, but that's because it was issued in 1921. Before computers. And the Bureau of Statistics hasn't gotten around to putting into their data bases. I think they're hoping that she'll die off before they have to put in the time and effort."

"Three down, sixty-four more to go," Megan chirped.

"Aren't you the perky one?" Glumly.

"All in the attitude," Megan assured him. "Convince yourself that you're having a good time, and it'll turn into a good time." She indicated her own computer. "Like this. Randolph Arenow, of 22 Bayberry Lane. Age four. How much you want to bet that this is a custodial account for Master Arenow's college education?" Megan crossed the name off of her list with a flourish. "Sixty-three left. See? Wasn't that easy?"

"They get harder as time goes on," Colby growled.

"Wrong attitude, Colby," Megan told him. "They don't get harder. They get more fun. A challenge is fun. It's no fun if it's too easy."

"Your four year old kid was easy, and you enjoyed that one."

"I'm flexible." Megan turned back to her computer. "Don?"

"Tough one," Don growled, glaring at his own screen. "Lots of transactions here. Could be our guy." He circled the name as one to come back to. "Not sure where he is. Looks like he's got a couple of places that he could be at, couple of vacation homes in the mountains."

"Just because he trades stocks doesn't make him our man," David pointed out, hidden behind yet another computer, researching. "I trade stocks. It even impacts my taxes."

"Up or down?"

"If I tell you, you'll only consider me a suspect."

"Actually, you are a suspect, David," Megan said with surprise. "Look, here's your name on Charlie's list."

"I am?" That was a new one.

"Hm. Digging time." Don gratefully transferred his attention to his latest suspect, grinning. "You invested in GELF Enterprises."

"That's right. Up and coming bio-genetics company. Now that stem cell research is becoming popular—"

"Who in turned invested in Specialty Magnesium, Inc."

"Who—?"

"Which is the link to JB Imports," Don announced. He swiveled his chair around to fix a beady eye on David, suppressing a grin. "You been leaking information to Black Bart, Sinclair? You the one who squealed that Jelly Morton was going to take down Up the Creek?"

"Hey, I—" David started blustering before he realized that Don was yanking his chain. He grinned. "You've been to my place, Eppes. Do _you_ think that I have Black Bart's money?"

"I don't know, David." Don pretended to consider the proposition. "All those prints you have? The art work? Maybe they're not copies. Maybe they're the real things, that you _claim_ are copies."

Snort. "Get back to work, Eppes. You're wasting my time."

"Is that any way to talk to your team leader?" Don did indeed turn back to his computer. Play time was over. David's name was easy to cross off of Charlie's list, but the other sixty-one were still hanging there.

He looked down at the time on the screen. Almost noon. Charlie's class was supposed to be over by eleven. Give the man another twenty minutes to be inundated by questions from students, five to walk back to his office. Which meant that he had had thirty minutes to forget that the FBI case existed and get involved in some other project. Time to remind his brother to get his ass over here and help winnow down the list. Sixty odd suspects was too much to delve into, especially since the majority weren't four year olds or FBI agents. Don pulled out his cell with its convenient speed dial.

No answer. Charlie's recorded voice came on, inviting him to leave a message. Don did, making it a civil one. He'd give his brother another twenty minutes, then leave a second, more pungent reminder. The third would be a personal visit to drag the man over to headquarters. Don smiled to himself. Charlie could block out the world when it came to working on a problem. _Takes all types._

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Pull over and let me out," Charlie requested. This was going too far.

Morton spared him a glance. "Sorry, Charlie. I need you too much. This is for the good of L.A. Or don't you want to catch this guy?"

There it was, out in the open. Jessica Morton wasn't going to let him out of her car. Not yet, anyway. "This is kidnapping, you know." Still calm. He could appeal to her instincts as an FBI agent, even if she had been fired. Sworn to uphold good, and all of that.

"Not exactly. You're a consultant. I'm consulting you. You'll appreciate this in the end, when you and I catch Black Bart." She sped up slightly.

They'd left the confines of L.A. proper behind, zipping through the suburbs into the canyons surrounding the city. The little Miata took the curves smoothly, the driver behind the wheel an expert in putting the car exactly where she wanted it. Charlie admired the way she handled the car even as he grew more worried as to where she was taking him. "I suppose you have a destination in mind?"

"Actually, I do." Morton eased the car into a turn, pulling out of it with a mild acceleration. "A friend of mine has a little place on the mountain. Not too big, but quiet. No distractions. You can work there."

"I need internet access," Charlie pointed out. As in, _this won't work. Give it up right now, so we can both walk away from this_.

"Got it." Morton gave him a quick glance, which Charlie had no trouble deciphering: _will the consultant try to use the 'net to call for help? Sure, he will. We'll figure out a way to avoid that little scenario._

Then her voice took on another note. No more teasing, no more pseudo-lightheartedness. "Your seatbelt secure, Charlie?"

Charlie checked it. "What?" _What now?_

"Someone's following us."

"Who?" _Someone from Don's team, maybe? I hope, I hope._

"I don't know. I don't recognize the car." Well-trained instincts came into play. "Let's see what this one is about."

Charlie gulped. _Let's not, and say we did_.

Morton gently pushed down on the gas pedal, easing the car well above the recommended speed limit. The tires squealed in protest.

They pulled away from the dark sedan behind them, but only for a moment. The larger engine took over and enabled the sedan to close back in.

"I think they know that we're on to them," Morton observed, her voice a little too calm.

Charlie clutched at whatever in the car was clutch-worthy. "Maybe we should pull over. Ask them what they want." _Maybe they're from the FBI, wanting to know what you're doing with me in your car, when Don very specifically told me to have nothing to do with you_.

"I don't think that would be such a good idea, Charlie."

"I do—" Charlie started to say, when they were bumped from behind. He yelped.

"Hang on," Morton advised him, and floored it.

Whatever Charlie wanted to say then was lost in the wind. The top to the Miata was down, and the little car took the corners with the speed of a greyhound translated into automotive terms.

But what the Miata had in turns, the sedan behind made up for in sheer horsepower. Morton would pull away out of a curve, and the sedan would close the gap—

_Wham!_

The Miata jerked forward.

"They're ramming us!" Morton yelled unnecessarily. "Hang on!"

Entirely superfluous advice. Charlie was already grabbing onto anything that he could, wind whipping past his face.

_Wham!_

Curve coming up. They could put a few feet of distance between them there. Morton was a great driver, trained by the FBI and the school of Real Life and—

_Wham!_

The little Miata sailed through the guard rail and into open air, careening off of the road and, incidentally, out of touch with anything resembling a hard surface until a few feet later when the blue nose of the vehicle made contact with the rocky ground. And flipped. And rolled. And rolled a few more times.

The sedan kept on going.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Three times, buddy," Don grumped, closing up the cell phone. "You lose. I'm coming after you. Anybody want to come with?"

"Me."

"Me."

"Me."

"Don't everybody volunteer at once," Don grinned. "I can only afford to let one of you escape. David, you're up. I need to keep an eye on our suspect who might be leaking information to Black Bart," he teased.

"Ha." But David picked up his jacket, slung it over his shoulder, as eager as any of them for an excursion out of the office.

The L.A. sun beat down on them as Don swung the big Suburban out through the streets and moseyed along toward CalSci. He automatically scanned the people walking on the sidewalks, looking for anyone he knew and needed to talk to, knowing that David Sinclair was doing the same on his side of the street. Not many low lifes were out there. At one in the afternoon, most of the druggies were just dragging themselves out of bed, blinking the crust from their eyes and wishing that they felt better. Half of 'em would dump themselves back into bed until the sun went down. The other half would pray to the porcelain god for a little while, then go to 'work'.

Don had bigger fish to fry, but to land that particular trout he needed Charlie's input. He pulled the Suburban into the parking lot nearest the Math Building, noting Charlie's own car several spaces away. He pointed it out to David. "Charlie's still here. Guess he's not taking calls or messages."

"Let's check inside."

But Charlie's office was also empty. Unlocked, but that didn't worry Don. Charlie's office was always unlocked. Charlie rarely felt the need to keep people out. If there was something classified that he was working on, either for the FBI or the NSA, he'd take it with him or lock it in the file in the corner of his office. Students were always wandering in and out, asking questions of one sort or another.

One wandered by, and Don grabbed him. "Have you seen Prof. Eppes?"

The kid raised his eyebrows. "Nope. I was hoping to catch him in, thought that he might have stepped out for lunch. He's not back yet."

"You've tried earlier?"

"Yeah, about eleven thirty, twelve. You know when he's expected back?"

Don shrugged, keeping it casual. "Haven't a clue. I'm looking for him myself."

The kid looked at his cell for the time. No more watches for this generation, Don found himself thinking. The kid shrugged. "Got class. I'll catch him another time. Good luck in finding him," he called on his way down the corridor.

David came up, tucking his cell phone back into his pocket. "Neither Larry or Amita have seen him either," he reported. "In fact, Dr. Fleinhardt sounded miffed that Dr. Eppes wasn't working on one of Larry's pet projects. Seems that Charlie promised Larry that he'd have it done before sundown today. Larry's publication deadline is tomorrow, and Larry said that he needs to incorporate some of Charlie's work." He grimaced. "I leave you to imagine what it entails."

"Knock, knock." Another head stuck itself into Charlie's office, one that Don didn't recognize, but he did recognize the type: student. "Dr. Eppes around?"

"Sorry. We're looking for himself, too."

The student frowned. "He left me a message, said to come get some work that he needed help with. Some physics thing. Said he was headed off for the FBI building, if I needed him." The student grimaced. "It's not another Fleinhardt special, is it?"

"Couldn't tell you," Don lied. "He said he was going to the FBI building? You sure about that?"

"Yeah. Something about a case."

Warning flags went up.


	10. Tug of War 10

Was there one part of him that didn't hurt? Charlie didn't think so.

Maybe there was. His left pinky seemed to be intact, although it was being rapidly overwhelmed by the rest of him.

What had happened? Jessica Morton had forced him into her car, drove him off… and from there it got a little fuzzy. Well, yeah, a whole lot fuzzy. His eyes didn't work so well, either, and he just plain _hurt_.

He tried to move—and his leg objected so thoroughly that all he could do was to freeze and try not to whimper at the pain.

Higher functions such as _thought_ were going to have to wait for a more opportune time.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"He's a college professor, for cripes' sake!" Don was trying not to shout. Charlie's office was its usual chaotic self, whiteboards lining the wall with incomprehensible symbology covering it in a variety of colors. There was no evidence of anyone dragging off an unwilling mathematician. No, whatever had happened, Charlie had left this office by his own choice. Even the tests for one of the courses that he was teaching were graded and stacked in a pile that, for Charlie, looked neat. "Nobody goes gunning for college professors!"

"There was that math professor at UCLA a few years ago that—" Colby trailed off at Don's glare. "Well, it happened."

"Maybe we'd better notify the NSA," Megan suggested gently. "Charlie isn't just any college professor, Don. He has a few more connections than most."

"Don't you think I know that?" And then it hit Don. It was one of those hunches that he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt was correct. It was a leap of faith into the unknown, and it was correct. He knew what had happened. He knew where Charlie was. Almost. "Where's Morton?"

"Isn't that a little far-fetched?"

"Is it?" Don was certain. "Is it?" He looked around, not seeing the office surroundings. "Spread out. Question the students. Talk to those who were around this area, somewhere between eleven and twelve."

Slowly the details filtered in. Several students had seen Prof. Eppes leave the Math Building, heading for his car. Most ignored him. One had spoken to him briefly, got a clue toward solving a math question—Don really didn't care what the Mullica Paradigm was—and then had dropped back onto his laptop to continue to try come up with the correct answer, ignoring where Dr. Eppes had taken himself off to. Two other students—young women, both—had seen with disappointment the foxy lady who had latched onto Prof. Eppes and led him arm in arm away to her car. Her blue Miata.

The description of the lady matched Morton.

An APB went out.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Charlie Eppes needed help. He needed it badly.

More details were coming back to him: the wild ride with Jelly Morton, getting bumped off of the road. Spinning into space, learning what it felt like to be wholly without gravity—sort of. Gravity had kicked in a moment later and splatted them onto the ground. Rocks, actually. They'd been splatted onto rocks, which accounted for the twisted shape of the Miata on top of him.

"Jelly—" he tried to call out. No good; his throat closed up and choked on the name, sending waves of pain through the rest of him at that small effort. Blackness tried to encroach once again; he fought it back. He tried again. "Jessica!"

No answer.

Was he alone? Was Jessica Morton as badly hurt as he was, maybe unconscious?

How long had Charlie himself been unconscious? He froze; the men in the other car, were they coming down after them, to finish what they'd started? Couldn't be. If they were, Charlie would be dead by now.

_Still could happen, Eppes_.

His right arm was free. It stung, but it didn't have that _I'm crunched_ feeling to it that the rest of him did. If he took it little bit at a time, say inch by inch, he'd be able to do something. What, he didn't know, but at least he'd be doing something to help himself. He felt around.

And felt a hand. It was flesh. It was cold.

"Jessica?"

No answer. Charlie felt for a pulse. Nothing. And the flesh felt cold. Really cold. Unnaturally cold. And there was no pulse.

Charlie threw up. Which set the rest of him on fire, which sent him spiraling back down into unconsciousness. That, in his opinion, was a good thing.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Got a hit!" Megan held up her hand from the computer. "Morton's Miata ran a red light heading north out of L.A. We got the plate and the time: one forty-six this afternoon."

"All right, she's heading north. Everybody, listen up." Don waved his hand for attention. "We concentrate our efforts north of the city. Colby, get choppers in the air. Megan, notify LAPD. David?"

David motioned for quiet, held the phone more closely to his ear in an effort to hear clearly. "You sure, man? Yeah? Yes, if this pans out I will most definitely be speaking on your behalf to your parole officer." He hung up.

"David?"

"Two of Black Bart's men. My source thinks they're hit men. They're on their way out of the country in a hurry."

"Like they just pulled a job?"

"Right."

_Crap_. Just what he didn't need, a break on the Blackburn case while he needed to concentrate his efforts on finding his brother and Morton. Don Eppes couldn't afford to let either problem go.

Divide and conquer. "David, take it. Get—" Don looked around, needed more men—"get Metzger and Aarons, take them with you. They deserve to be in on this. Go pick up the pair of Blackburn's guys, squeeze 'em dry. Sit on 'em until I get back."

"If they give up Blackburn—?"

_Crap_. David was right. This might be their one chance to grab Blackburn. If the man thought that his cover had been compromised, once the pair was picked up, he'd rabbit and they'd lose him for good.

Well, Sinclair was a good man with a good head on his shoulders. "Do whatever you think is best," Don directed. It was the best that Don could do.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Help. He needed help. He needed to summon help.

Calling out wasn't doing any good. The only one who heard him was the grasshopper that solemnly surveyed him with compound eyes and then crawled off, not even bothering to use those long legs through the dried brown stalks of grass growing in the canyon. Charlie envied the insect its mobility.

He wondered if there were vultures swirling overhead. Wouldn't surprise him. He'd heard that vultures were smarter than people thought, that they were learning to watch the roads for roadkill as an easy meal. Well, Charlie certainly qualified as roadkill. So did Jessica Jelly Morton, her more than he. Charlie had a pulse, at least for the moment.

Need to call for help. How? Charlie felt around, the meager afternoon light dying away more swiftly under the car. He could smell motor oil mixed with gasoline. Was the car going to explode into flames? Probably not. If it hadn't done so by now, then it probably wouldn't. Charlie had lost track of the time, but he was certain that it had been more than just a few minutes. A few hours, more like.

He felt something. Something hard, something fabric covered—his laptop!

Charlie could call for help. He could wiggle the small machine out of its case, turn it on—he had charged it all morning long, and congratulated himself on his forethought—and call for help across the internet.

It hurt, so much so that he needed to stop every few inches to catch his breath and let his vision waver back into alignment before he could pull again to get the laptop close enough to unzip the outer covering. But he persevered, maneuvering it out. He could only raise the screen two thirds of the way up; the crushed car didn't give him enough head room to lift it into a right angle. That didn't matter. What did matter was that he had it, and that he could tap the power button. He held his breath. Had his laptop survived the crash?

Power on. The screen lit, and obnoxious music rang forth in a very recognizable tune. Charlie didn't care. It would just be moments, and then he could log on into the 'net, call Don or someone at FBI headquarters—there was always someone monitoring—and help would be on its way.

He tapped the appropriate keys, opening up a link to the internet.

_The page you have requested cannot be found. Please check your Internet connection and try again._

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Don scanned the country side with field glasses, looking for any sign of a blue Miata in the countryside north of L.A. This part of the country had a lot of trees, a lot of canyons, and a lot of territory to cover. Helicopter rotors whirred above him, making speech all but impossible.

"Run this sector again, or move on to the next?" the pilot shouted at him.

Neither option had anything to recommend it over the other. Don prayed for guidance. "Next sector."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He could lie here and hurt, or he could try to distract himself with work. Charlie chose work.

The data from Don's case was sitting on his laptop. He didn't have internet access, but he didn't need it for this. Charlie needed to manipulate the data so that it yielded the answers that Don needed to identify who this Blackburn guy was.

He blinked, something liquid obscuring his vision. He wiped it away, noting distantly that it was blood. Or maybe motor oil. Charlie couldn't tell in the small amount of light underneath the Miata. It felt slimy, so maybe it was oil. He hoped so. He tapped away at the keyboard, cursing his slowness. Ten fingers worked faster than the five that he had access to at the moment. Four, actually; his ring finger didn't work so well, either.

And then it jumped out at him: the answer. He knew who Don's suspect was. He knew why it hadn't been possible to track the man down before this, why the data had gone in so many directions.

_Low battery. Save your work immediately_.

Let's change that to _save my life immediately_, Charlie thought. Yeah, that would be nice, he thought drowsily. Time for a little nap…

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"David!" Megan handed him a rap sheet. "I've ID'd one of your suspects. He's got priors, and two warrants out for his arrest. And, David, look at this."

David scanned the paper. He and Colby had brought in the two men that his source had identified for him as hit men for Black Bart. They caught them at LAX, just before they'd gone through Customs. Just in the nick of time. Neither one was talking.

Now it didn't matter. David didn't care that he couldn't identify one of the men, because he knew exactly who the other one was. And he knew exactly how to get to him.

The pair had been separated so that they couldn't compare stories. David didn't care. That wasn't going to be the hook. He had something much better.

He sauntered into the suspect's interrogation room, nodding pleasantly to the officer standing in the corner. He sat down in front of the suspect.

"Benjamin Cofort," he read off of the paper. "You've been a naughty boy, Benjamin. It says here that you like to play with six year old boys, Benjamin." David leaned back. "Do you know what other inmates think of men who play with six year old boys, Benjamin? They don't like them very much. They don't like to have them around, Benjamin. Inmates who play with six year old boys don't stay inmates very long. They usually end up in solitary, for their own protection. Or they end up dead." David tossed the paper onto the table. "Think you want to end up dead, Benjamin? Or do you want me to put in a good word for you, get you doing time in a place where they won't know that you like six year old boys?"

"I…"

"Mr. Blackburn isn't going to be able to get you out of this one, Benjamin. Does Mr. Blackburn know that you like six year old boys? Maybe if he learns about it, he's not going to be interested in bailing you out."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Cell phone. Morton had taken his cell phone. Which meant that she still had it, unless it had been tossed out of the car on its tumbling route downhill.

Like Charlie had something better to do than to search the pockets of a dead FBI agent? Then again, she really wasn't an agent any more. She'd been fired. Terminated. Now terminated in a very permanent fashion, one that the FBI didn't approve of. He giggled, knowing that his thoughts were wandering like butterflies without a net. He was heading for termination himself unless he could get himself out of this mess.

He was trapped underneath Morton's car. It wasn't a very big car, but it was big enough to be pinning both of his legs under it and against some rock on the ground. Movement was limited.

One arm had the freedom to work, and Charlie was determined to take advantage of whatever he could. His stomach rebelled at the thought of searching the dead woman's clothing, especially when she was still wearing it, but the only other option was to wait for the vultures to come down from the sky to visit.

There! Right there! Something hard and box-shaped. It took several precious minutes for him to find the way into the pocket instead of feeling around the outside, feeling the uncomfortably sagging feeling of dead flesh. The flesh was soft, and poke-able, and felt entirely _wrong_. Flesh ought to feel warm and pliable. It ought to spring back under his fingers.

And then he had it: his cell phone. His phone, with Don's number in speed dial. _Please, please let it work._

The screen lit up. _Yes!_

Don's speed dial number: three. Dad's was one, Larry's two. Amita was four; it had only been recently that he'd dared program it in. Like it would be bad luck if he presumed that much. Don was three because he'd moved back to L.A. after Charlie had put in both Dad and Larry.

Ten missed calls, the screen told him. Charlie could guess who they were from. Exit from that part of the tiny chip in the phone's scant memory, move into speed dial. There was some reason he was hesitating? Charlie hit the buttons.

A long moment, searching for the cell towers, finding them, other end ringing…

"Charlie?" Frantic. Terrified. "Charlie, where are you?"

"Don?" Charlie moistened his lips, tried to make cracked tissue speak clearly. "Don, there's been an accident." _Not exactly. We were run off the road_. _I'm pretty sure that it was deliberate_.

"Where are you, Charlie?" _Enough with the small talk. Where the hell are you?_

"I—I'm not sure."

_Beep beep. Low battery_.

He'd charged his laptop, but not his cell. How ironic.

"Are you hurt? Charlie, keep talking to me. Is Morton with you?" Don turned, shouted to someone else with his hand over the phone. "Somebody trace this call _now_! It's Charlie!"

"Sort of." Charlie winced.

"Sort of? What do you mean, sort of? Charlie, are you hurt?"

"I think so…"

_Beep beep_. Danger signal. Phone about to go dead. Just like Jessica Jelly Morton. Corpse in the vicinity, soon to be two corpses in the vicinity. One human, one cell phone. Maybe three corpses pretty soon, two of which would be human. Was that a vulture that just touched down over there? Maybe. Damn, he wished he could think straight.

"Where are you, buddy? What do you see around you? Give me some clues to work with, Charlie," Don pleaded.

Clues. That spurred something in Charlie's memory. "Don?"

"Yeah, Charlie? What do you see?"

"Don, I figured out who Black Bart is."

Don swore. "Just tell me where you are, Charlie! We can get him later."

_Beep beep_.

Silence.


	11. Tug of War 11

"They're working on it, Don. We've narrowed it down to four cell towers." Colby spread out the map on the hood of the Suburban. He penciled in four large circles. "These four service areas. We have overlap here." He pointed.

"Too large." Maybe by growling, Don could make the target area smaller. "And it's all wooded. The chopper won't be able to see through the trees." He traced his finger along one of the roads. "There are six major roads going through this area. Morton could have been on any one of 'em, gone off the road at any point. That's too much territory to cover, Colby."

"That's the best that our people have, Don." Colby didn't like saying that. "We've moved into the area where Charlie called from. We're that much closer and we'll be able to get to him that much quicker once we do locate him. The techs didn't have enough time to trace any closer than this, Don. The call went dead. We're lucky that they got this much."

"No, we're not lucky, Colby. My brother is down there somewhere, dying! You call that lucky?"

"Don—"

Don's cell buzzed. He looked at it irritably, hoping against hope that it was Charlie calling back. That the tech wizards could pull the signal out of thin air and tell him where his stupid genius brother was.

It wasn't. It was David. Dammit, he'd told the man to go ahead with the Blackburn case, use best judgment. He'd back him up, whatever he decided. Don needed to be here, looking for Charlie. Don flipped open his cell. "Eppes."

"Don, these are the guys that ran Charlie and Morton off of the road!"

Don instantly forgave David for calling, and for every mistake the man had ever made in the past or would make in the future. "Where?"

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Colby picked up Charlie's laptop, knowing that the mathematician would want it back. Right now it was part of a crime scene.

The coroner had just arrived, had taken one look at Jessica Jelly Morton, and pronounced her on the spot. Nobody could live with their neck in that particular angle. Colby had seen it a couple of times like that, in Afghanistan. Nobody lived with an injury like that. Death must have instantaneous.

Don had driven like a madman getting here, Colby clutching onto the dash in order to keep from getting thrown through the Suburban's windshield en route. Don had spotted the place immediately, watching for where the brush and the guard rail was torn away on the side of the road by a plummeting vehicle. Next moment: finding a spark of blue down below, the Miata overturned and showing only dark metal to the sky. Don had plunged down the slope on foot, leaving Colby to call in the rest of the rescue team.

It hadn't taken long, but to Don it had probably felt like forever. The team arrived on their heels. They pulled Charlie out from under, Don almost lifting the Miata entirely by himself. They figured out that the mathematician was still alive, Colby steadying Don who all but collapsed in relief against a boulder. Someone started an IV. There was a moan of pain, followed by a squirt of morphine into the IV. Don shuddered, had to swallow hard, had to lean against a sturdy boulder to keep from going down himself. Next step: placing the injured man onto a stretcher, tying him in.

"Don—?"

"You're gonna be okay, Charlie. Don't try to move, okay?" Don's hand shook on his brother's shoulder.

"Laptop." Whispered.

"I'll get it, Don." Colby was grateful for the chance to do something. The medics didn't want anyone's 'help' getting in their way.

"Handle things here, Colby." Don was on his way up the slope, insisting on taking his turn to help hoist the stretcher to the road where the ambulance waited. Insisting on doing _something_.

So Colby handled things. Pictures were taken, samples bagged, the laptop recovered. And the body bagged.

Colby sighed. Jelly Morton wasn't the best person he knew, but she didn't deserve this.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Colby saw him first as he walked back into the office the next morning. There were brittle lines in Don's face, lines that hadn't been there twenty four hours ago. There was a bleak look around the eyes. "Don? How's Charlie?"

"My dad's with him." Don didn't feel like talking, didn't know how he could get out of it. _Maybe go down to the gym and punch out the bag for a while. Like that would help put Black Bart behind bars_. "He hasn't woken up yet."

"The docs?"

"They're pretty hopeful." Don didn't see why. His brother was still pale. And incapable of opening his eyes or saying anything or writing anything on that omnipresent white board of his. That didn't sound hopeful to Don. That sounded pretty damn scary.

"LAPD has offered to help with the security arrangement," David told him. "We can use the coverage. We're getting stretched pretty thin."

Don tightened his lips. "What did those two assassins give you?"

"One isn't saying anything. He's going down, and he knows it. He'll be bucking for time off for good behavior. I'm planning to ask the D.A. to consider life without parole."

"And the other?" Don didn't care about the sentencing. At this point, he just wanted his brother awake and talking and healthy. Taking down Black Bart was an inadequate substitute to vent his anger upon, but would have to do.

"He's talking non-stop, but he's not saying what we want to hear. My guess is that he really doesn't know. He never met Blackburn in person, wouldn't recognize him if he saw him on the street. Got his orders over the phone."

It made sense. Don wasn't surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised. "Let's rattle the streets. Hit your sources." He turned to Colby. "Our guys get anything off of Charlie's laptop?"

"Other than a really novel version of solitaire?" Colby made a face. "If it's there, only Charlie knows what it is. If—excuse me, _when_—Charlie wakes up, we can ask him about it."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Don hated hospitals. Had hated them since he was ten, and broke his arm. Didn't like them any better the time that they thought that he'd torn his rotator cuff, back when he was playing pro ball. Hated the smell, hated the sounds, hated everything about them. Hated what they represented.

Didn't keep him from coming down here. He sat in the waiting room outside of Intensive Care, waiting for a chance to go in and watch his brother lie there in a coma. It wasn't a coma, they said. He was just too battered to wake up quite yet. That he was coming out of anesthesia. They had fourteen different excuses, every one of them sounding more lame than the last. Don just wanted to see his brother open his eyes by himself, hear his brother say something that made sense. Even math stuff, nonsensical as it sounded, would be okay because Don knew that it would make sense to Charlie.

He'd sent his father home to get some rest. The man had beaten the ambulance to the hospital, had had better roads to drive over, and had been waiting for the parade when it arrived. The two of them had spent the night in this very waiting room, jerking themselves awake every time someone opened the door and walked through. It had been after three AM when the doctors had finally delivered the good news, that their son and brother would be all right. No, he wasn't awake. Yes, they could peek in on him for a moment as soon as the nurses got him settled, but that they had best go home at that point. Charlie wouldn't know that they were here. Neither one went home. And the chairs were damn uncomfortable.

Don went in to work, unable to keep himself away. Black Bart was responsible for this, and Don wanted to make certain that the criminal knew just how grateful the entire Eppes family was for bringing them closer together—_not_. He was exhausted and angry and it was only because Megan and David and Colby all backed him up against the proverbial wall that he realized that hitting the streets in this condition was a good way to get someone killed. He settled for directing the operation from safely inside FBI headquarters with his team firmly instructed to 'whup him up side the head' if he tried to lash out at anyone who didn't deserve it.

So Don went to work, listened to everyone work at eliminating more of the sixty seven possible suspects that Charlie had originally identified, knowing that somewhere inside that dark curly head lay the answer. And when the work day was over, Don dragged himself back to the hospital and heard yet again that Charlie still hadn't woken up.

LAPD had taken over the security detail, the rest of the FBI staff working on the Black Bart case. Everyone wanted a piece of it now. Charlie had made himself a favorite among the L.A. FBI branch and even sixty year old Marcy at Reception was willing to pull out her revolver and go gunning for the suspect that had ordered the hit on her favorite math professor. The end result was that the FBI was working the case, LAPD was handling security, and Alan Eppes was watching Charlie not be in a coma. Whatever.

So when Don got back to the hospital, he sent his father home to clean up and get some rest. There had been some protesting, but Don had pushed, and he'd brought Megan along to help. Alan Eppes hadn't stood a chance, not with the profiler with the sneaky psych background there to drive him back and forth and not take no for an answer. Alan went. Don dropped his backside onto the uncomfortable chair in the waiting room yet again after checking on the LAPD guards.

"Mr. Eppes?"

Don had jumped out of the chair with his eyes back open before the nurse finished speaking his name. "Yes?"

"He's awake," the nurse said, "but not for long. We've already given him more pain medication. Did you want to speak to him?"

_Hell, yes!_ But Don politely said, "definitely," and then crowded the nurse's heels trying to get inside faster.

His brother looked pale against the white sheets, dark curls plastered limply against his brow. There was a parade of butterfly sutures across one temple, and Don didn't want to know how many rolls of bandages it had taken to achieve the pristine white look that the man presently sported. The black eye made up for it. It was almost swollen shut, but the other one stared at him, trying to comprehend what was going on around him. The two LAPD guards, stationed directly outside the windowed cubicle and able to see and hear everything that went on, nodded to Don on his way in.

Don crossed to the bed, wanting to take Charlie's hand in reassurance, not quite certain what he could and couldn't touch. He settled for a light touch on his brother's wrist. "Hey, buddy."

"Don?" Charlie slurred. He fought to keep his one good eye open. "Y' get 'im?"

"Not yet, buddy." It hurt to say that. "You're gonna be okay." That was more important than any case.

Not to Charlie. "Laptop," he muttered, sinking into a narcotic-induced slumber. "Laptop, Don. Did you get it?"

"We got it, Charlie." _We can't find what you have on it, but we have the laptop_.

"Jessica?"

Don took refuge in distraction. "Don't fight it, Charlie. Go to sleep. Someone's gonna be here with you all the time. Your job is to get better so you can help us crack the case."

"Crack…the case…" A deep sigh, and Charlie was out. Don looked up in alarm at the nurse, but he smiled reassuringly and pointed to the monitor above their heads. The little green light beeped steadily along.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The IT wizards had thrown up their hands in despair over Charlie's laptop. "We're good," one told Don. One of the female IT geeks was consoling another geek of indeterminate sexual persuasion in the corner, the other sobbing with great heavings of his/her breast. Three earrings on one lobe jangled disconcordantly. "We're good, but this is Charles Eppes we're dealing with. We don't have a snowball's chance in hell in breaking the code that he's put on this baby."

"And if we try to wangle the data out around the codes, we'll not only get garbage, but we'll fry the hard drive," another added. "This is real _I'll die before I give up the answer_ kind of stuff. This is code that I only dream of cracking in my wildest nightmares."

Which made sense. Charlie still did work for the NSA occasionally. He couldn't afford to have his laptop hacked into. Hell, Charlie told Don that his worst fear was that another mathematician would hack in and steal his work. Like that was worse?

Maybe for Charlie, it was.

Long story short, IT couldn't hack it. No pun intended, just a sobering dose of reality. The laptop sat on Don's desk, gleaming with the polish that the sobbing geek had tried to pamper it with in a vain effort to persuade the little box to give up its secrets to avenge its master. The polish hadn't helped and neither anything else that anyone had tried.

"_Did you try kicking it?" Don was only half kidding._

"_Hell, no. That might have hurt its feelings." There was no kidding in that response._

"We've knocked it down to thirty two suspects," David told him when Don trudged back upstairs to his office, weary beyond belief. "Still way too many." He took a closer look at Don. "Man, why don't you knock off for the day? You're beat."

"Not yet," Don replied. _Because if I knock off, I'll go over to the hospital to watch my brother get drugged into unconsciousness some more, knowing that he's there because I pulled him onto a case. That Jessica Morton would never have met Charlie Eppes if it hadn't been for me. That she wouldn't be dead, and my brother crunched into a pretzel, if I hadn't had the bright idea to have him consult for the FBI. Some brother I am_.

"At least sack out in your office for an hour or so," Colby urged. "We'll wake you if anything pops up."

Don wanted to object. He wanted to keep working. His body refused. He trudged into his office to plop into his chair, stretching out his legs. _Even Area Director D'Angelo shoved me in this direction with a pat on the back. Do I look that bad? Yeah, I guess I do_.

There was something niggling at his brain. There was another piece to this case, something that he was forgetting. It wouldn't let him rest. He puzzled at it for long moments, trying remember what it was. Was it something from one of Morton's raids? Maybe. That had a familiar sort of feel to it, but not quite right…

"Don? Don?"

"Wha—?" If anything, he felt worse. _Damn. I really did fall asleep_. His tongue was coated with something even an army wouldn't trudge through, and his eyes felt crusted over with the same stuff. He rubbed at them, tried to figure out who it was. "Megan?"

"Coffee," she said, putting a steaming cup onto the desk in front of him, not trusting him not to spill it. "Feel better?"

"Yes," he lied, reaching for the cup gratefully. He sipped at it, feeling it scald his tongue, letting the taste bring back memories of the last few days. "How long?"

"Were you out? Two hours." Megan correctly interpreted his question. "And no, we haven't gotten any further with the thirty odd suspects that we have left from Charlie's list. It's taking some heavy duty digging to figure out who's dirty enough to be Blackburn. David even got D'Angelo to have some accountants give us a hand, since it's financial data."

"We need what's on Charlie's laptop." Don sipped again, trying to force himself more awake. "Anyone hear from my father?"

"About half an hour ago. Charlie woke up, said hello to your dad, and drifted off again. The docs are pleased with his progress, but none of the rest of us are."

Don grunted. "They say when he's going to be able to dig into his laptop?"

"One says two days, another says three. They're worse than lawyers, the way they argue," Megan told him. "They need a judge to decide between them."

It hit Don. That little thought that had drifted off to sleep with him? It was back. And he knew what it was. And now he knew where he wanted his people. "Megan," he said, trying to contain his excitement, "you remember when Morton raided that Up the Creek place? How it looked like someone had tipped them off, and they had people waiting for our guys?"

"That's right," Megan said. "It's what led to Morton's downfall. If she hadn't done that raid, there would have been no report to be falsified. Charlie wouldn't have been hit in the vest. Why?"

"Who tipped them off?"

"What?"

"You heard me." Don crawled to his feet, inhaled more coffee. "Who tipped them off? Very few people knew about it. Charlie told you, me, and David and Colby. We didn't give it away. Then he told Morton. She told Metzger and Aarons, and then went for a warrant. Who tipped them off?"

"Metzger and Aarons and the other three that they got for the raid wouldn't have done it," Megan mused. "Their lives were on the line, too. They could have easily been killed. They weren't likely to tip Blackburn off. The judge? It was Judge Berenstein, I heard. The Teddy bear himself."

"Who is already wealthy from years of sitting on the bench," Don nodded. "He doesn't need money. He's a couple of months away from retirement; he's not going to chance losing his legacy with something like that. Who else? Who else would know about the warrant?"

"Someone in the judge's chambers." Megan's eyes began to shine. "Don, I think you've got it! It had to have been someone there." She sobered. "What do we do? The judge is not going to look favorably on our investigating his people. Not without a _lot_ of proof. This could sour him for the rest of his tenure on the bench."

"So we don't tell him," Don answered promptly. "We'll go to the D.A., go to another judge and ask for permission to tap the phones of Judge Berenstein and his court personnel. If we don't find anything, we keep it quiet. Nobody knows, nobody gets annoyed." He finished the coffee, amazed to find it all gone already. The caffeine felt good, flooding his abused nerves. "But I know I'm right. Somebody was tipped off about Morton's raid, and it wasn't by one of us."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You are certain of this information?" The voice, as always, was deep and forbidding.

The stenographer shuddered. She would pay for a mistake with her life. The voice had promised her this, and she believed him. "Yes. The lead agent on the case is Special Agent Don Eppes. He was in here, asking for a warrant to raid the Van Buren street studios."

"Really?" The voice evinced surprise. "Why?"

"I couldn't hear that part," the stenographer stammered. "Just that he was taking over where the other agent left off. The agent that got killed. He said they had a lead, something about information on a laptop. That's all I know. Please, that's all I know."

"Your compensation will arrive in the usual fashion." And the voice hung up.


	12. Tug of War 12

Don almost panicked when he saw the name in the ID window of his cell. His father was calling him. His father was at the hospital, with Charlie. Charlie had been crunched. Charlie was in Intensive Care.  
"Dad? Charlie okay?"

"He's doing better, Don. That's why I'm calling. He's awake, more or less. I say less, your brother says more and then drifts off to sleep again."

"Oh. Good." Don felt the adrenaline rush ebb away. It left him feeling limp. "He up to talking to me?"

"He's insisting on it, Don. Oh, and he wants his laptop. I keep telling him that he can't use it here in the hospital, but he still says for you to bring it." His father turned away from the phone for a moment. "Thanks, officer. How much do I owe you for the coffee?" He turned back. "I'll tell Charlie that you're on your way?"

"I'll be there in half an hour," Don promised. _Maybe less._ _I may hit the sirens_.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Don turned to the others. "I'm heading over to the hospital," he told them. "Charlie's awake, and wants his laptop. He may be able to ID Blackburn for us, but I want to keep going as we are, just in case I'm wrong. David, you go ahead and start planning the Van Buren operation. Plan for lots of noise, lots of sound and fury, but I don't want anyone getting hurt. I expect that they'll know that we're coming, and they'll be prepared. The goal here is to establish the link, not to actually get any leads from the organizational files. Got it?"

"Got it, Don. Play it safe."

Don went to Colby. "You handling the phone taps?"

"Got 'em right here, Don. We're taping them all, including the cell phones. It'll take a little while to go through them all. If we're lucky, we'll hear it in real time but don't count on it. We're covering more than a dozen possibles." Colby sighed grimly. "It'll take a while, Don. And, I gotta be honest: we might come up empty. What if they use a pay phone instead of one at the courthouse, or their cell?"

"Keep at it," Don instructed. "Once we find the leak, we can plug it. Then we can go after Blackburn without him knowing that we're on his tail." He turned his head over his shoulder, picking up Charlie's laptop and hefting it. It didn't weigh much for such a powerful tool. It wasn't doing any good around here; IT was in over their heads. The little machine needed Charlie. _So do I_. "Megan, you're with me."

But, once again, he had the funny feeling that he was leaving something out.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Don almost panicked once again when Charlie's bed in ICU was empty, but the secretary quickly pointed the pair of FBI agents in the right direction, toward the regular floor. Alan Eppes met them at the elevator, the older man approaching from the sun room with a newspaper in his hand from where he'd been killing time.

"Shh. Charlie's asleep. He's still worn out," Alan greeted them. "That's his new room, over there," he said, indicating the closed door with a single uniformed police officer standing guard outside. "They moved him in a couple of hours ago; they tell me that's the next step to getting your brother out of this place. They're still giving him lots of morphine or whatever passes for good stuff these days, so he sounds pretty loopy. I mean, whacky even for your brother. Now when he talks about pi, he means the cherry pie that your mother used to make on special occasions. This keeps up, I'm going to start comparing him to Larry and his cosmological references." Alan grinned, the expression a bit lop-sided. "And try to beat him at chess while I have the chance."

"I don't know, Alan," Megan told him. "Even doped up, I may still bet on Charlie."

Don forced a smile to his face. The whole thing was good news, but he was still wondering if this scenario would have come out a lot better if he hadn't put up that fight with Jelly Morton. That there might still be a damn good FBI agent alive, and a certified genius that didn't have a black eye and a few miles of bandages on him. That Charlie would have ID'd Blackburn with the information provided by both agents, and the case would be finished, all except for the obligatory appearance in front of a judge. "He gonna be able to talk to me?" he asked.

"Oh, he'll talk," his father said dryly. "I just won't promise that he'll make much sense. I see you brought his laptop."

"Yeah. Key to the whole thing. That's what Charlie told me." _On the way up the slope, that's when he told me. Me, terrified about him, and all he can think about is solving my case._

"Me, too," Alan agreed, "over and over. It's keeping him up. Let him see the laptop, that'll help him settle down and get some rest."

Megan glanced around, looking down the hall toward Charlie's new quarters. A nurse hurried by, logged in briefly at a computer workstation, and hurried off again, stethoscope around her neck and a package of sterile somethings in her hand. Megan ignored her, focused on the door to Charlie's room. "That's his room? There's only one policeman outside. Where's the other one?"

Alan shrugged. "Haven't a clue. It was good of you to arrange the protection, Don. Don't know if it's needed—that's your department—but it sure makes me feel better. That one there is Johnny. I met him yesterday, when he first showed up with his partner. Nice guy; so's his partner from yesterday. I don't know today's partner's name. Johnny didn't introduce us. I've barely seen this new guy."

"Where is he?" It was standard protocol for both officers to be outside the room, watching everyone who approached. Don felt a hint of annoyance. This was an active case. It wasn't just a Special Agent throwing his weight around to impress his family. This patient was a consultant and a witness, with important information on an important case. There really was someone out to get him, someone who had almost succeeded, which was why the witness was here in this hospital. The witness needed protection.

"Bathroom break?" Alan raised his eyebrows to indicate the question. "We've already done the coffee thing, and a break would be the next piece of logical action. Let's go into Charlie's room," he said. "Charlie may or may not be awake at the moment. Keep quiet in case he's sleeping," he admonished them.

The policeman greeted them; his name tag said Officer John Dease. He seemed unaccountably nervous, Don thought idly. He tried to dismiss the thought, found it coming back. He looked at the cop again. New on the job? Seemed a little bit old for being this nervous. And officers assigned to guard duty usually found it boring, not anxiety-producing, even when faced with the victim's brother/FBI agent. This sort of job was a cakewalk, unless something was in the middle of going down. The officer's smile was brittle, and his gaze was riveted to the case that Don was carrying. "That the laptop that Dr. Eppes keeps asking for?"

Don Eppes had spent many years honing instincts that had saved not only his life but the lives of teammates, people in protective custody, and just about anyone else that the FBI considered worth saving. He cherished those instincts, nourished them as often as possible, and almost always listened to them. He might not always be in a position to do anything about what they were saying, but he almost always listened. And the few times—_very_ few!—that he had not, he had always regretted it. Always.

He listened now. His instincts were screaming at him. Something was going down. And he _was_ in a position to do something about what they were telling him.

"Let's go inside," Don said, watching the cop. "See if Charlie's awake." He put his hand up to open the door.

Dease halted him. "The nurses are with him. They're the ones who closed the door. We can wait until they're done."

Don's instincts were screaming loud enough to cause a sonic boom. "I grew up with him. I've seen everything that he's got every time he hogged the bathroom before school in the morning." He pushed Dease out of the way.

Dease pushed back. "Agent Eppes—"

Something definitely was wrong. Alarm bells went on over-drive and Don slammed into the door, wrenching it open. His instincts were right once again: the second policeman was holding a pillow over his brother's head, smothering him. Smothering Charlie, and not with kindness. Smothering with intent to kill. And there were no nurses, or anyone else for that matter, in the room, except for a murderer and his intended victim.

No time: Don crossed the room and spun the man away.

The assassin was big, and fast. He put up his arms, lashed out. Connected.

Don didn't feel it. Adrenalized rage batted away everything but the target in front of him. Don had been angry for the last several days, angry over Jelly Morton's high-handed and back-stabbing tactics, angry over the case not yet solved, and angry that his brother had been crunched by getting in the middle. Every blow Don aimed hit the assailant, every block the man tried for defense failed. The assassin went down. He went down hard. And to Don, it felt good. _Damn_ good.

Megan slammed the other policeman, Johnny, against the wall, his arm twisted back into a half-Nelson. "Don't even try it," she hissed into his ear, sliding his gun safely out of his holster where he couldn't get to it. "Don't even try it."

Alan was the first to his son, pulling the pillow away and tossing it to the floor. "Charlie!"

"Is he breathing?" Don had to know. "Dad?"

"He's breathing!"

Which meant that Don could take his own breath, air that he hadn't even realized that he wasn't using. Charlie was alive! Don pulled handcuffs out of his back pocket, knowing that Megan was doing the same for her suspect.

"You're a lucky man," Don said to the man that he still had pinned to the floor with his knee, arms wrapped behind his back and cuffed. "If you'd have succeeded here, you wouldn't have lived to go to trial."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Colby was bored. Desk work always bored him, and there was plenty of it going on right on his desk. It didn't help to know that David was dealing with the same thing. But David Sinclair always looked more at ease doing it, like it was an integral part of the case, like it was going to solve something. And, in this case, they were really hoping for a lead.

The Van Buren raid had gone off without a hitch. The FBI were expected guests, and Sinclair had made certain that everyone on his team was wearing flak jackets with plenty of common sense stuffed into the pockets. A bunch of shots were fired, the bad guys made a clean getaway even with Aarons, wanting payback big time, begging to be allowed to shoot out the tires of one vehicle, and the business office—surprise, surprise—turned out to have been trashed and bereft of anything resembling useful information. _Not the point_, as Don had said.

There had to be someone dirty, somewhere. That crack they'd made about Sinclair being on Charlie's list, that was all nonsense. Colby'd trust Sinclair on his tail any day. They'd gone drinking together, with David showing Colby some of the better watering holes near the FBI building and then some of the dives where the better class of snitches hung out. It wasn't Sinclair who was dirty, and he knew it and Don knew it and Charlie knew it. It was just the way that the numbers came up. There were sixty seven suspects on Charlie's list, and sixty six of 'em were innocent. There was no way that David Sinclair was Black Bart Blackburn. For one thing, there just wasn't time. According to Charlie, Blackburn was doing a hell of a lot of work trying to run all of these operations from the top and doing a bang up job of it. The criminal master-mind was probably on the go twenty-four/seven trying to keep up with it all. David had been here at Headquarters as long as Don or Megan or Colby himself, and in all that time Colby hadn't even seen David make an outside call. Nope, not David. Timeline didn't fit, which was a lot better than just blindly going ahead and saying, 'it's not David 'cause I trust him'. Colby was as good as the next agent when it came to evaluating his fellow man, but having cold hard facts to back him up felt really good.

On the other hand, it would make a really good topic from which to tweak Sinclair's feathers…

Which still left someplace for the leak to be coming from. If it wasn't here in FBI headquarters, then it had to be someone associated with Judge Berenstein who'd issued the warrant. They'd tapped a bunch of people: law clerks, stenographers, the court officials. Which meant that there were a hell of a lot of tapes to go through. There was no way that he and David and Metzger and Aarons—Don had 'generously' pulled Morton's old team onto his own until more permanent assignments could be made—could listen to all the calls every one of 'em made as the call went out, but they could tape them all for later playback.

Hence the desk work. This one was labeled June Dreyfuss. That was the stenographer that Judge Berenstein liked, the one that he always tried to keep in his courtroom. Colby had heard that she was one of the better ones, that her fingers could even keep up with that lawyer dude, what's his name? Bascom, or something? The guy talked fast, faster than Charlie, faster than a speeding bullet and when the dude was defending some sort of street slime he could wade in it taller than the tallest building. Colby was grateful that they didn't have to listen to any tapes with Bascom on it. They'd have to slow the tape down to figure out what the man was saying.

There were six of the stenographer's calls to listen to. The first two were long and boring, and Colby didn't dare try to speed up through anything in case he missed that vital something that would plug the leak. They were simple doctor appointment things, calls that involved waiting for god-awful long periods of time waiting for medical secretaries to persuade computers that were a hell of a lot slower than Charlie's to understand that June Dreyfuss's appointment was to be changed from this Monday to next Wednesday. The third call was even worse: a call to an insurance company, with the obligatory waiting for what seemed like hours listening to elevator music. The fourth, fortunately, was only to a girlfriend, setting up a shopping date to go pick up something for a mutual friend's bridal shower. Nothing suspicious there. There weren't too many assassination attempts made with either toaster ovens or a five piece place setting of Lenox Royal Courtyard Gold china.

It was the fifth call that had Colby reaching for the rewind button. He signaled. "Yo, David! I think I got something here."

"Who is it?" David jumped up and away from his desk so fast that Colby wanted to revisit his thought about David enjoying the sit down part of the job.

"It's the stenographer. June Dreyfuss. Listen." Colby hit the switch.

A deep voice rumbled through the taped line. "When?"

"Soon." June's voice trembled. "The warrant didn't say when."

"You are certain of this information?"

"Yes. The lead agent on the case is Special Agent Don Eppes. He was in here, asking for a warrant to raid the Van Buren street studios." The stenographer's voice trembled. It was clear that the woman was scared out of her mind.

"Really? Why?"

"I couldn't hear that part. Just that he was taking over where the other agent left off. The agent that got killed. He said they had a lead, something about information on a laptop. That's all I know. Please, that's all I know." There was almost a sob at the end of that statement.

"Your compensation will arrive in the usual fashion." And the deep voice hung up, the call ended.

David looked at Colby with satisfaction. "Nailed."

"Do we pick her up?"

David considered. "Not yet. We may need her to feed more tidbits to Black Bart. Let's hold off, see what Don gets from Charlie." He picked up the phone on Colby's desk and tapped in a very familiar number. He got Don's voice mail. "Don? It's David. Listen, we ID'd the leak; you were right, it was from Berenstein's chambers. But Don, watch yourself. The call that we heard put you on Black Bart's hit list."


	13. Tug of War 13

"Listen, doc, I hear what you're saying, but I don't think that you're listening to me." Don had the phone held to his ear, trying to reason with his brother's doctor. "Having your patient murdered while in your hospital under your care has to be really bad for business."

Protest, couched in incomprehensible medical-ese.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it." Don did not and was not about to admit it. "Don't worry about how much it costs. Uncle Sam is footing this bill. Can you set up a hospital room somewhere else? In a private house somewhere? Good; that's what we're going to do. I'll need a list of nurses that I can have my people run quick background checks on, and I'll arrange for you to be transported to make a house call each day. Thanks, doc." He hung up the phone at the nurses' station and turned to Megan. "Hurdle crossed. Start the ball rolling. We'll set up Charlie in a safe house, somewhere that we can protect him, while he recovers and we take Blackburn down. And this time I want the FBI on protection detail." Don sternly commanded his hand to stop trembling. It had been so close! Another five minutes, and the laptop that now rested in Charlie's room would have had its secrets never revealed. And that was just the beginning. There was the whole other _genius dying young_ scenario to consider.

If Megan spotted it, she never said a word. "You head back, Don; take the laptop with you. It's evidence, and Charlie won't be using it for the next few hours at least. I'll stay here with Charlie and start setting up a place as well as make the arrangement for what supplies the medical people will need. I already called David, and there's a team of us on the way over here now to take over security and pick those two suspects up. I suspect they'll be like all the others: soldiers who get their orders over the phone from an unseen voice. But we'll try."

Don started to object, wanting to stay here, with Charlie. _Gotta make sure that the witness stays alive_. It had nothing to do with the fact that this was his brother. _Right_. But common sense kicked in; he was too close to the situation. If they really wanted to talk procedure, Don should have removed himself from the case once Charlie was targeted.

Hah. He'd fouled this thing up from the beginning, starting with how he'd handled Jelly Morton. Sure, she'd started it by not following procedure herself, not notifying a fellow agent as to her plans and ruining all David's undercover work and then pulling the stupid stunts with Charlie, but that didn't excuse Don himself. Don was a senior agent. He shouldn't have let it get this far. He should have gone to the Area Director and nipped it in the bud.

_Should'a, would'a, could'a_. And, because of that, a damn fine agent was dead and a world-class mathematician twisted up into so many turns that even _he_ couldn't calculate all the angles. Well, maybe Morton hadn't been a damn fine agent quite yet, but knock some of the attitude out of her and she would have been. That was the point. And now it would never happen.

Well, Don wasn't about to remove himself at this late date, but he could—and would—listen to his team. If Megan was sending him back to Headquarters, he'd go. Sure, he wanted to be here, stay and protect Charlie, but there were other people better suited to that task. Don himself was needed to work on figuring out who Blackburn was.

And the answer was really in Charlie's laptop. And the kid's head. No, not a kid. A world class mathematician. Despite all the years, Don still had trouble thinking of Charlie in those terms. Charlie was just his kid brother who happened to be very good at math and a pain in the ass to boot. Were there any kid brothers who weren't pains in the collective ass? Don hadn't heard of any. Damn, Don really did need to take a step back on this one. His usual objectivity was getting a real work out.

All of which meant that Megan was right in sending Don back to Headquarters, back where both he and the rest of his team would be safe. Trying to work the streets with his mind in this condition was suicidal. He hefted the laptop in his hand, the handle well worn with use. It was evidence; he had to return the thing to Headquarters until Charlie was up to talking again, this time without any assassins lurking in cop uniforms trying to take him out. The cover to the laptop was one of those cheap nylon jobs, not quite fitting for the high end machine inside. It didn't seem quite right. Charlie's laptop was one that he'd custom-designed for his needs. Not big on the graphics, Charlie had told him once over idle conversation, but the CPU thing was an experimental model from CalSci's computer sciences department, something they were trying out to see if it would fly in the real world. Someone over there had figured that his brother had a need for speed and would give the toy a work out. After which CalSci could look at marketing it to the afore-mentioned real world with the tag line of _tested to destruction by Dr. Charles Eppes_.

That test to destruction wasn't supposed to include flipping a car into a canyon. Don winced, opened the door to his Suburban and shoved the laptop inside.

There was very little sound, just a whisper as the bullet cut a new buttonhole in the arm of his coat and dug itself into the car door. The Suburban now looked as though it had two door locks, only one with an actual lock in it.

Don didn't wait to inspect the damage. He flung himself into the Suburban after the laptop, hunkering down below the dash, his gun already in his hand. He had no memory of pulling it but that didn't matter. He scanned the surrounding area, trying to see where the shot came from. He pulled out his cell and hit the speed dial.

"Megan! Shots fired! I'm down in the parking lot!"

No hesitation. "Stay where you are. I'm coming down."

"No, don't! Stay with Charlie, and my father. Where's the rest of the team?"

"On their way. I'll tell them to hit the sirens. How many shooters?"

"Can't tell. Can't see anyone." Don peered over the dash. "I'm going to go look—"

"Don, you stay where you are!" Megan ordered. "Wait for back up."

"Megan—"

"Wait for back up," she repeated.

Damn. The woman was right, as usual. Going after the shooter alone was a good way to let the sniper finish the job. But, _damn_, he wanted to go after the man!

But the parking lot looked empty. Whoever it had been, they were gone now.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Colby ambled up, his apparent ease masking the tension that they all felt. He held up a bag with a spent slug in it. "Found exactly where the guy was waiting for you, Don. I figure that he spotted your vehicle and waited in the bushes until you came out of the hospital, then took his shot. You were lucky his aim was off."

"Yeah," Don grunted. There was a new white bandage wrapped around his arm to match those that his brother had. Same color, different quantity. And, frankly, now that the adrenalin had quit fueling his system, the damn thing _hurt_.

But what hurt even more was the fact that the shooter had gotten clean away. The spent shellcase in the bag in Colby's hand and the slug that Forensics was digging out of the Suburban—_that slug has traces of my blood on it_—were the only pieces of evidence that he'd left behind. Not much to go on.

David indicated the bullet. "I'd say that you touched a nerve, Don. Blackburn, now that he's eliminated Morton, has turned his attention to you."

"Yeah, well, I can't say I'm any too pleased." Don popped the antibiotics that the nurse handed him into his mouth with a water chaser. "Maybe I am. This says that we're getting too close for Blackburn's comfort. Thanks, but I don't need that," he said to the nurse handing him the sling for his arm.

"Don—" David tried to object.

"Look, I don't need it, and it will only freak out Charlie and my father," Don said firmly. "The guy's aim was off, and I got away lucky. I don't even need anything more than a couple of Tylenol," he added, lying through his teeth. The damn thing really did hurt. But anything stronger that over the counter stuff would send him off to la-la land, considering the lack of sleep, and Don couldn't afford that. "Where are we on getting Charlie to a safe house?"

"We should be able to move him within the hour," David reported. "There's a team on him right now, people that I _know_ within the Bureau, and another group setting up security at the safe house." David cocked his head. "I'm thinking that you ought to be there, too, Don."

"I'm thinking that I need to be at Headquarters, figuring out who Blackburn is," Don retorted. And winced, as his arm requested to taken home and put to bed.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Professor Eppes was holding class, but his lecture hall today was a small make-shift hospital room in a safe house and half of his students were standing. There was no room for any additional chairs. Professor Eppes himself was lying down on a threadbare sofa, which was a good thing because, Don suspected, if his brother tried to stand up he'd fall flat on his face and blacken his other eye. To compensate for his less than commanding position, Colby helped him sit up into a sitting position, putting Charlie's laptop on the coffee table nearby, then replacing himself on the arm of the chair that Megan was relaxing in. Don himself was on a straight chair, correctly acknowledging that anything more comfortable and he would fall asleep in front of them all.

"Your suspect," Charlie began, "is a genius." The hose carrying oxygen to his face was getting in the way of clear speech, but Charlie was determined. He coughed, accepting a cup of water from Megan to soothe his throat. The large green oxygen tank in the background hissed quietly.

"Takes one to know one," Colby muttered under his breath.

Charlie ignored him. "From the start, this was an operation with multiple, multiple tentacles. There were porn studios, there were illegal import schemes, extortion rings, drugs dealers—you name it, they did it. And there were layers upon layers upon layers." Pause for another cough, and a sip to quiet the cough. "This whole thing was extraordinarily complex. One business funneled money into the next, into the next, all welded together into a nexus at the top."

"Black Bart Blackburn," Megan nodded. "The top man."

"Not exactly." Charlie turned on the laptop, typing in the code that would allow the computer to function for mere mortals. It was a good thing that the IT geeks weren't here, Don reflected. They would have been pouring over themselves trying to see what password his brother had chosen. "As I said, this whole organization was extraordinarily complex. Too complex for any one person to keep track of."

"Charlie, corporations do this all the time," David protested. "They manage sub-units and micro-units in the hundreds if not thousands."

"Correct, but they have very specific operating guidelines," Charlie pointed out. "Oversight tends to be based on the concept that each unit will be working toward the same goal: producing rewards for the parent company."

"And that's not the case here." Don knew when to put in a straight line for his brother, even if the straight line didn't make any sense. Of course businesses tried to make money, either legally or illegally. What was Charlie babbling about? Don had thought that the docs were weaning back on the morphine. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Charlie didn't really have the answer that he thought he did? Don's gut started throbbing in time with his arm. "Each business is _not_ trying to produce these rewards for the parent company. Is that what you're saying?"

"Exactly." Charlie beamed. His favorite pupil had come through, or so he thought. He coughed again, sipped at the water, made a face at the taste. "Legitimate corporations work within legal guidelines. They adhere to the law of the land."

"Most of the time," Colby murmured.

Charlie ignored the peanut gallery once again. "In this case, however, we have units that are based on defying conventional authority. If they defy the legal authority, what's to keep them from doing the same to their version of a parent company?"

"Let me guess: nothing," David put in wryly.

"Right. In fact, they enhance their own situation by doing exactly that, by holding back funds for themselves instead of passing them along to the next level. Which means that the parent company—Black Bart—needs to exercise additional oversight to make sure that not only does the parent company get its fair share of the profits but that the unit doesn't screw up and expose the entire company to legal scrutiny. Whereas legal sub-units are dedicated to producing income for the parent company, illegal units are just as likely to hijack the money for themselves. Prevention of this type of embezzlement is what any criminal organization tries to minimize through increased oversight of one kind or another."

"A lot of work," Megan observed. "So you're saying that we have a paradox here."

"A lovely paradox," Charlie agreed. "That was what threw me off. We had a spider in its web with lots of strands, but the spider couldn't keep track of all the strands. There were pipelines, among pipelines, among pipelines. Black Bart couldn't possibly have kept up with all of them." He patted his laptop fondly. "Not even with computers."

"And the answer is?" Don prompted. He could see his brother getting tired already, and wanted the answer before the man crashed yet again.

Charlie's eyes were still bright. "There were three pipelines that I identified as top of the food chain. Three pipelines, and I was trying to figure out which ones were dummies and which one would lead us to the real Bart Blackburn. I had assumed that he was providing the oversight, even though that was clearly impossible with the sheer quantity of information."

"Keep going."

"I made a wrong assumption."

"Which was?"

"That two of three pipelines were dummies to throw me off. They were all real." Charlie yawned; he couldn't help it.

"But, Charlie, the pipelines go in different routes. How—?"

"Exactly. Different routes, different people."

"A couple of aliases?"

"Nope." Another yawn. Losing ground fast. "Three people." Charlie grinned, blinking to keep his eyes open. "Black Bart Blackburn is a committee of three. Which is why I couldn't figure out who it was, because I was looking for a single person. Three people, all interacting, directing the most complex criminal organization in L.A. All brilliant, all supervising the immense quantity of work. One person couldn't do it, but three—working hard—could." He barely managed to type in the final command, and swung the laptop around to show the others. "And here they are."

Don swiftly jotted the names down. Computers were wonderful, but they had a distressing tendency to crash at the most inopportune times. And this one had the added benefit of only responding to a certain mathematician who also looked ready to crash. He handed the paper off to David. "Go get 'em, guys."

David exchanged a swift look with Megan. "Hey, isn't this one of the eighty year old geezers that I crossed off the list?"

"Guess you were wrong, David. Haul his ass and his walker in for questioning."


	14. Tug of War 14

David Sinclair, warrant in hand and back up agents behind him, walked up to the condo. It was located in one of the nicer neighborhoods in L.A. The car outside in front of the garage was a high end Beamer. The small lawn in front had the well-manicured look of a place with some expensive grounds-keeping. It fit. David rang the door bell.

A butler—so help him, it was really a butler!—answered. "May I help you?"

David flourished his badge. "Sinclair, FBI. I'm here to see Walter Raritan."

"I'll see if Mr. Raritan is available." The butler turned away.

David stopped the door from closing. "He's available, and I'm here to take him into custody." He walked into the house, his back up on his tail, not taking no for an answer. A crooked smile lifted one corner of his mouth. "And I'd start updating my resume, if I were you."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Megan Reeves knocked on the door. It was a lovely place, a mansion with memories of the Thirties embedded in it. Three stories at least, she decided, and that was before considering if the place had a basement. Megan had already seen the guest house in back and figured that the guest house alone was bigger than Megan's own apartment. Graciousness was the key word for this place, and Megan almost regretted having to make this call. Even the rose bushes out front seemed to chide her for being so uncouth as to come to arrest the occupant of this elegant home.

An old woman answered the door. "I'm sorry, dear. We've already ordered our Girl Scout cookies for this year."

"That's all right. I'm not selling any."

"Well, whatever you're selling, we're not interested at the moment. Perhaps you could come back another time." The woman tried to close the door.

Megan stuck her foot over the door sill, preventing it from closing. "I'm looking for Agatha Terwilliger. Are you she?"

"No, I'm not. She's out at the moment."

"When will she be back?"

"I'm not sure. She didn't say."

"I see." Little warning flags, running up and down her spine. Behind her she could sense her back up with the same unease. "I'll come in and wait."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible—"

"I'm afraid you don't have any choice." Megan hardened her voice and flashed the warrant. "Do you, Mrs. Terwilliger?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Okay, the place looked like a fortress.

Not really, Colby realized, but yes, really. That stone wall surrounding the place was composed of chiseled stones six feet high and at least a foot thick. And it looked like there was some barbed wire lying on top of it to discourage anyone from climbing over. That was okay; Colby didn't intend to climb over. He intended to and already had gone through the front gate, past the two Dobermans that were even now eying him and his back up with a look that said _just give the word and we'll rip these two FBI dudes into leather chew toys_. Colby's gun was itching in his holster, two bullets with two Dobermans' names on them. Fortunately for all concerned, the chains that kept the Dobies in place were made of thick steel.

The house itself was modern, had been remodeled and remodeled again in the not so distant past. It was daylight, so the flood lights weren't needed, and the warrant got Colby past the three different locks on the front door. An ultra up to date alarm system flashed a warning light that unwanted intruders would be subjected to sirens, arrests, and any other burglar-proofing devices that Gretchen Vanderhoecken could dream up. The lady in question had opened the door herself, regarding Colby with suspicion, her gray hair in curlers and leaning on a cane. Colby could see a little gray basket hanging on the front of a walker beside the door with a phone, a hair dryer, and a small bag of dog treats in it. Mrs. Vanderhoecken's eyebrows furrowed with annoyance, and Colby could well imagine her back in the Old Country, keeping invading soldiers from her home by sheer force of will. He could feel his back up's attention wander nervously toward the dogs. He wouldn't put it past her to tell the animals to attack.

Colby flashed his badge. "Agent Granger, FBI. Mrs. Vanderhoecken, you'll need to come with us."

Colby was wrong. It wasn't the dogs that were the bigger threat. It was Mrs. Vanderhoecken herself.

She hit him with the cane.

It hurt.

Colby added assault to the list of charges.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"We got 'em," Don reported.

Charlie was finally home, propped up on the sofa with plenty of pillows and plenty of pill bottles on the side table next to him. His color was better, Don noted, and the black eye had faded to a deep purple with green not far behind. Some of the bandages had been removed.

"All three?" Charlie looked up with interest.

"All three, exactly who you said, including that little old lady. Feistiest one of the bunch," Don added. "She hit Colby with her cane. He added assault to her charges. And Colby's got a black eye to rival yours, now," he added gleefully. "You should see it."

"And—?"

"And, yes, you were right. We have some financial types working on the leads that you gave them, scanning through the pipelines that you identified. At least one CPA, last I saw, was in tears at how beautiful a scheme it was. I think she was jealous that she hadn't thought it up first." Don thought about that for a moment. "I think I'm going to have to have her boss keep an eye on her. That's a lot of money to be tempted with."

"You think your CPA will try and imitate the Black Bart trio?"

"Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, buddy."

Charlie altered the subject slightly. "And the leaks? Who told them that Jessica Morton was going to raid that Up the Creek place?"

"It was Judge Berenstein's stenographer," Don said, sobering. He relaxed into the comfort of the easy chair. "She won't even get a slap on the wrist from the courts, although she will lose her job. It was all intimidation. They threatened her life. But the interesting one was Johnny Dease, formerly of the LAPD. One of the officers guarding you at the hospital."

Charlie lifted his eyebrows. There was a small tremor of one hand, underneath the covers.

Don pretended not to notice. "Dease was one of the people who went after Morton, Charlie. Remember? In the parking lot outside the Math Building? Shot up the place?"

"I remember." Charlie really didn't, but wasn't about to admit it.

"That was before you ever came up with the next level of sub-units of the Black Bart operation. They were after Morton because they thought she was a threat to them."

"She was," Charlie observed. "And so were you, Don. You got shot." He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. "How is it feeling?"

Don waved it off, careful not to disturb his own arm. He could use it, but he remembered the docs digging into his arm every time he reached for something. _No benefit in letting Charlie know that. My brother feels guilty enough as it is, and he didn't even do anything_. "Yeah, but you were even _more_ of a threat, buddy. They figured that out next, got orders to stop you in your tracks. So when Morton got you into her car, they decided on a two for one sale." Don tried not to shudder himself at how close it had been. "We're lucky that Morton was a good driver. Aced the Quantico course. You _both _would be dead if she hadn't been." His arm stabbed at him again, just for spite. "Forensics ran the scenarios. By rights, the car should have crushed you both. They figure that Morton managed to fishtail the Miata just right so that it touched the ground on the sides of the car as it rolled instead of coming down squarely on the top." He took a deep breath. "We had our differences, Charlie, but Morton was a good agent at the end. She saved your life."

Charlie wasn't made of the same stern stuff as his brother. He did pale at the thought; a cold shiver ran up and down his spine despite the throw tossed over his legs. He changed the subject, unwilling to explore the circumstances of Morton's death and his own survival any further. "And the LAPD officer? What was his name? Dease?"

"Heavy duty leaks. He confessed the whole thing; was having money deposited into an off-shore account. Another year or two of this, and he would have retired a rich man. He fingered Morton, and then he fingered you, buddy. Even more: he got himself assigned to your guard duty at the hospital, when one of the trio told him to. That's what tipped the scales; leaking info was one thing, but murder was another. The trio didn't trust him, so they sent back up. The back up, one of Blackburn's men, took out Dease's usual partner—we found him with a headache in the men's room one floor down—and took his place as the second cop. When they heard that I was coming in with your laptop, they knew they had to act fast. The whole Black Bart scheme was about to be revealed. The entire organization was going to crash."

Charlie swallowed hard. "I owe you my life, Don. They almost killed me. I owe you a big one."

"Let's just call it even," Don told him. "We were lucky that I arrived just at the right moment. To be honest, if I hadn't been so fixated on a tug of war with Morton over you, this never would have happened. We could have worked together; shared leads. She wouldn't have pursued you like a bat out of hell and I wouldn't have used you to feed her leads that I could snare her with. She wouldn't have kidnapped you, you wouldn't have gotten into her car, and Dease wouldn't have pushed the two of you off of the road." He grinned. "Let's call it even." He handed over another slice of pizza to emphasize the point. It was the healthy kind of pizza, to Don's way of thinking. It didn't have extra cheese, and it did have veggies. That made it healthy. Healthi_er_, at least. Good for convalescing.

"You mean that? We're even?" Charlie lay back against the sofa, wrung out but eyes still bright and alive in his head. He accepted the slice, took a small nibble out of it, and set it down, too tired to snack but still wanting to bond.

"Yeah, buddy, I do." Don was pretty proud of his brother at the moment. The Eppes brothers had pulled off a big one. They'd done it together. And they'd come out on top. Battered and bruised and dented, but on top. "Even."

"Not quite, Don."

Don paused. "Charlie?"

His brother developed an evil glint in his eye. "Did you forget about the back shed?"


End file.
